The question haunted him for the rest of the day. Had there been anything unusual? He recalled the room; it was dark and wet (much like all of the other rooms). There were a couple of rats scurrying away as he entered. The room’s lantern was out, likely due to a heavy leak streaming in from above, extinguishing it’s flame. There was a small window; Two bricks wide at most. Enough for a cat or raccoon, not big enough for a human. A lone stool sat in the corner covered in dust and cobwebs. The wood splintered and warped with age along with the exposure to constant moisture. The floor was slick, he made note of that to come and scrub it later to limit the lichen buildup.
He shakes his head and moves on in his thoughts. Searching his memories of his brief time in that chamber, he recalls the cell. Cold criss-crossing steel bars, wide enough for an arm to fit, but impossible for a body. The cell was stark, as to be expected. Two rusty, broken chains hung on the back wall untouched. The dark red and orange from oxidation ran down the wall staining the cobblestone. A chamber pot sits in the corner untouched and surprisingly clean looking.
Arden recalls the man. Laying on the cot in the opposite corner laid a man. A very tall man. Not particularly large, but he appeared to be well built and taken care of. His skin was an olive tone he thinks but it could’ve been a layer of grime from his time locked up; It was hard to tell in the darkness. His fingernails were longer than he’s used to on a man, but that also could be due to neglect and confinement. He laid on his side facing him. Dark hair covering most of his face. The hair on the sides of his head was shorter than that down the middle. If standing, Arden’s sure that his hair would reach his shoulders at least.
If anything seemed strange it was the stranger’s face. It was long and sharp. His features were harsh and well defined. But even though his eyes remained closed, Arden felt like he was being watched. At first he dismissed it as a fear of the dark or being alone in this room with a criminal, but the longer he looked at the man’s face, the more uneasy he felt. In fact, the more he recalled his observations, the more disturbed he felt. As if even the memory of this man’s face could see him.
He opened his eyes, feeling a cold sweat from panic. Why was that feeling so strong just now? The stranger didn’t see him when he was down there, and he certainly couldn’t see him just now in his memories. But the feeling was vehement, and his stomach churned with uneasiness. Did he actually feel uneasy at the time, or is his mind playing tricks on him? It’s hard to say but for now he had to leave. He needed the sun’s soothing rays to liberate him from the prison’s suffocating atmosphere. .
It was still raining, much to his dismay. The sun was hidden behind the clouds. He sighed heavily and allowed the rain to shower his face as he angled it towards the sky. The wind, the grass, the light. It was all very grounding and calming after spending so much time in the dank underground. He usually doesn’t mind the prisons, but after today he definitely needed some time outside. Any place where he couldn’t see the sky was suffocating. All he could see was the man’s face partnered with the consuming feeling that he was being watched. It was ridiculous. He knew that. But he still couldn’t shake his restlessness.
“Stop thinking about him”
Arden whirled around, his heart beating in his chest. It was Walter. The oldest of the prison maintenance crew, and the one who asked him if he saw anything unusual.
“Pardon?” He asked, trying to calm his racing heart. His eyes blinked away the rain.
“He can sense when you think about him. He will use it against you.” He said, matter-of-factly.
His words sounded like nonsense despite his earnest expression.
“Who? The prisoner? What do you mean he can sense it?” Arden realized too late that he didn’t deny thinking about the prisoner. He mentally kicked himself for the error, but it was too late. He saw Walter’s eyes narrow.
“It’s a demon”
A demon? Arden has heard of demons, they are rare creatures from another world. They are said to be manipulative and inherently evil. People make deals with them for power or money and then their soul is taken. Or so they say. Was this man- this thing, really a demon? Why is it locked up? How is it locked up? Don’t they have powerful magics?
His head swirled with questions and doubts. Too many to choose from, and an overwhelming feeling of panic took hold of him. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Walter. Walter was still here, his face filled with pity.
“Be careful around it. That’s all I can say.” He turned to leave and Arden let him. He didn’t know what to say or do with this new bit of information. Why did they not warn him before he was sent to his cell? The thought irked him.
The ground was wet and cold, but he sat down anyway. His clothes were soaked though at this point, he knew his mother would lecture him, but he could find it in himself to care. A demon was haunting him. Haunting? Probably not the right term, but it was the best thing he had to describe how it felt. Was it real? He didn’t know, but he still felt odd.
Suppressing the image of the prisoner's face was impossible. He tried constantly to distract himself. He was miserable. More haunted by the thought of being seen through his own memories, then anything else. How could that even be possible? If he pictured the man-demon, outside of his memory, would the feeling be the same? He wanted to know but it frightened him to think that it might happen.
He fought with himself to let it go, to focus on anything else. Alas, against his will, his mind conjured a new scene with the prisoner sitting in a chair in the corner of his cell. An image formed from his limited knowledge of the room and the man. The man perched on the rickety stool from the corner near the lantern. His gaze started at his feet, reluctant to view the face. Nothing unusual so far so his eyes followed the muslin pant legs up, observing the lack of stains. On his thighs rested his hands, fingers lightly drumming.The figure shifts. The movement draws his eyes up the torso, the shirt similar to the pants. Surprising cleanliness for a prisoner. The top of the shirt lay slightly open, displaying the stranger’s chest. Thick black hair cascades over his shoulders. A bit longer than he remembered.
That’s odd.
This image is based on his memory. Why would that change? His eyes followed the hair up. The sharp jawline drawing his gaze. Each feature of his face was scrutinized individually. Thin pink lips, a sharp angled nose, prominent cheekbones. Until finally he reached them.
His eyes.
They were open. Looking directly at him. The gaze felt like daggers stabbing into him. The stare was unbreakable. His eyes a striking pale blue, his pupils tiny, almost nonexistent. It was a predatory look, and every cell in his body wanted to run, yet he was frozen in place. Cold sweat running down his back, unable to open his eyes.. He begged himself to think about anything else. To free himself from this vision so that he could breathe. But his gaze was locked.
It felt like ages that he was locked in a staring contest with the demon. He wanted to blink, to look away, anything to break the stare. It was hopeless.
Until he felt something hit his head.
“What in hell are you doing out here in the mud?” His mother asked, holding a towel. Ah, that’s what saved him. He has no idea how long he was trapped. Minutes? Seconds? Longer? All he knew was that he was grateful to be chastised by his mother. “You should be working.”
Arden stood up, his whole body aching in protest, the cold air ghosting right through him. “I was on break, I’m headed back now,” he lied. He was done for today but he knew that if she was privy to that, she would give him chores. All he wanted was to clear his head of the horrors he had just experienced.
“Well get to it! Try to dry off a little, you’ll catch cold”, with a click of her tongue she was gone.
Arden continued to stand in the rain, watching it roll off the roof into puddles in the courtyard. All he wanted to do was take a nap, but fear of the dreams he might have, stear’s him away from his bed. Dread fills him as he realizes something.
He never saw the demon’s eyes. Yet he knows, without a doubt, that the eyes he was fixed to in his dream were real. Walter was right. He was being watched.
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