Marc hobbled down the concrete steps of the arena to a seat where he planned to rest for the night. It’s kind of funny having to pick one seat from thousands because the mind actually has some preference in the matter, Marc noted. He stopped about 20 rows up from the field and walked in a few seats from the aisle. The seat came down and he sat and sighed. The sigh disappeared into the silence. The white noise of the air conditioner was the only thing running.
Marc’s eyes looked across the darkened arena at the seats opposite him and the stairs separating the sections rising up from the field and disappearing into the blackness of the concourse.
Marc felt that feeling again. The feeling he had to stare. Something wasn’t right. He would once again regret this feeling.
He looked across and into the blackness. He looked deeply into one of the black rectangles and the stairs rising up into it. He felt blood rush up to his head and heart pick up a bit.
It was so dark.
“Just don’t worry about it, Marc. Don’t dwell on it. Get some rest you’ll get home in the morning.”
Marc closed his eyes and felt the beaming cold presence of the black rectangles. He opened his eyes again and whether it was a trick of his imagination or something else he thought he saw a shadow move in the blackness of the rectangle. Something somewhat darker than its surroundings and it was gone.
His heart beat faster and he didn’t notice his hunger anymore. His vision widened and he noticed all the black concourse entrances at the tops of the stairs. And a shiver went up his spine as he remembered there was one right behind him.
His hair stood on his arms. He was well aware that there was such a thing as the opposite of claustrophobia. He felt all the air around him as one massive space. It was huge and horrifying and black. He had too much room. Some ancient instinct to avoid open places and hide in caves was rising in him.
“Alright, this is fucking ridiculous!” Marc stood up and walked up the stairs into the concourse, which wasn’t as dark as it looked from inside the arena.
“Is anyone here?”
He looked the other direction.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
He felt a little calmer, but he didn’t think it would last. A cave is what he needed if he wanted to get some sleep. He saw the dull glow of a light illuminating a black menu with white plastic letters and a big red Coca-Cola square next to it. His stomach rumbled. Hot dogs did sounds pretty good right about now.
Around the corner from the concession stand was a doorway market AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY. He thought there might have been something useful in there or perhaps a cozy place to sleep. The door was open, surprisingly, but Marc made sure it didn’t close behind him as he stepped in.
The room was dark and he found a light switch next to the entrance. He flicked it and the stairs down in front of him illuminated. He looked down into the black hallway one story down. He walked down.
Above him was a spider web of rusty pipes running down the length of the hallway occasionally cutting left or right and into the wall. The steady dripping of water could be heard and even in the dull shadowy yellow light of the stairs he could see the puddle were reddish brown with rust, like a steampunk nightmare. Far ahead of him was another staircase. But it was pitch black. He could see the stairs but to the side of the stairs was a wall of blackness.
Marc’s heart began to pound again as he stared at the blackness.
“Don’t look at it Marc, just look away.”
He couldn’t, of course and stared harder at it.
“Get some guts you ninny!” His voice shivered.
He slowly stepped forward, his footsteps echoing quickly off all the walls around him. Tingles went up his back and his arms again and he took a breath in and in a loud voice yelled, “Alright! Get out of there whoever you are!”
At first just his voice scared him. It was so loud. Then in an instant something shifted in the black behind the stairs.
“Shit!” Terror grappled Marc’s brain as he ran on his busted ankle, flying up the stairs with the feeling something was right behind him. Don’t turn around, don’t look, he thought to himself. He flew out the door, slamming the door behind him.
“Shit, shit, shit!” his frustration with each step on his busted ankle.
He ran out into the arena, down the stairs and reached the railing. He climbed over the railing and caught his new shirt on the pole as he climbed down the 8 feet to the field below, tearing it. He hobbled out onto the grass and straight to the middle of the 50 yard line.
He sat down and grabbed the grass between his fingers. He stretched out his legs and rubbed his sore ankle. He looked around and didn’t feel anymore fear with the black rectangles at the top of the stairs. He’d seen much worse than them. The grass felt good and he felt better.
Part VI coming soon…
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