Made a short little fic thing cuz I was Having Thoughts. I literally never write so read at your own risk. It’s probably not great but I genuinely dgaf
Basically, Alice Woodward sneaks around her old ass house, this doesn’t end well.
Tw for like, eye and body horror ig. Throw up too.
Alice sneaks through her dad’s at night, planning to grab a snack and sneak out to meet Deb. It’s dark, the middle of the night. Somehow she doesn’t end up in the kitchen or by the front door, but in the guest room. Hard to navigate in the dark. She could’ve sworn she passed the living room just a second ago though.
It used to be her grandmother’s, long before she dropped dead from some complicated heart condition, back when Alice was a little girl. it’s still decorated relatively the same. She couldn’t tell you why- her dad always looks so sad in this room. It’s probably nostalgia, or grief, or some weird respect thing. She doesn’t really care right now. She doesn’t really care about anything but the bone chilling and joint freezing dread that run through her the second she opens the door.
She doesn’t know why. It all looks the same. Lavender bed covers, white curtains, a wooden vanity with little purple porcelain birds facing away from the mirror, creepy painting of a giant purple cat with terrible orange eyes… they aren’t supposed to be orange. They’re supposed to match the bed, tie the room together. Her memaw told her so when she was like, ten.
She stares at the abomination. She doesn’t know why she suddenly thinks so terribly about it. It stares back.
Its eyes are moving, following her. The dread keeps rising till she can’t feel anything but. She wants to throw up. She knows what a panic attack feels like, she’s had them forever. They crush your ribs, tear your lungs with smokey black claws, and grip your brain tightly and throw it in a blender. This is somehow worse. Her eyes feel sore and dry. She hasn’t been blinking. She can’t. Time has passed, too much time. She should probably blink.
She walks back, straight into the vanity, one of the little birds falls to the ground. It was her favorite as a kid. She’d skip to her memaw’s room after school every day just to stare at it as the old woman painted some new sculpture of the week. Its little orange beak is smashed to bits, she finally looks away from the cat at the sound. Poor bird, her memaw put a lot of work into that.
She doesn’t feel the staring anymore. The cat’s eyes aren’t orange anymore. Her’s are.
There’s eyes all over her. On her palms, up her arms, down her legs, around her neck, covering her face. All orange. Except the ones she should have. The two in the center of her face. Those are a sickening violet. Like a bruise. She finally does throw up, in a trashcan thank god. The laughter gets louder. Pounds in her skull. The throw up smells of popcorn, funnel cakes, and so much blood. A scent so sweet it makes her hack up more. She can make out words now, mocking her. Demanding something, an eye. Why? Whatever is doing this already has so many, she knows it does. She can feel it. Nine hundred and ninety nine. Somehow she knows one’s missing.
Alice Woodward, 20 years old come Monday, screams.
When she wakes up to concerned soft brown eyes and a warm hand, she gets it. It was just a nightmare. The same one she’s had all week. She marches to her memaws room to look at her favorite bird. It always calms her down.
Alice Woodward, 11 come Monday, does not realize that the dreams are warnings. Visions of a painful future. And she skips down the halls of her old, creaky house, followed by the gaze of orange eyes.
A woman in white cries.
She can’t help this one, her brother’s grip is too strong. No matter how hard she tries or how young the dreams start. She turns her gaze to a child cloaked in pink instead. Time to try again.
