A Mouse of a Conspiracy
A Mouse of a Conspiracy
By Meagan Blanchard
Copyright 3.27.05
I hear the back door opening. The hinges having not been oiled in years, creaking their protest loudly. I turn from my computer desk in the dining room, heart beating frantically. I’ve always loved the nights, the solitude, the quiet, but this is what I hate about being alone at night; the unidentifiable creaks, noises, bumps, and now of course, this. I get up slowly, simultaneously grabbing a metal letter opener from the green pottery cup that holds an assortment of rulers, pens, pencils, and one tire air pressure gauge. Heart pumping overly loud and with my letter opener at the ready, I slowly cross the dining room floor, my fuzzy white house slippers not even making a whisper of noise on the old tan carpet. I reach the doorway to the kitchen, my body concealed behind the wall, and lean my head and eyes over the right side of the entryway.
Spying nothing out of the ordinary, I step full into view, and boldly check the door handle for obvious tampering of the lock. There are no scratch marks or signs of forcing; the lock is secure and the door closed. Looking a might perplexed, I head back toward the dining room absently thinking of horror movies and the women leads that always forget to look behind them. Upon the culmination of that thought, I thoroughly check every room in the house. Nothing is amiss. Completely confused and almost convinced that I am - without a doubt - crazy, I head back to my computer desk to complete unanswered emails.
After an hour of diligent work, I hear the door open again. Creeeeeeeeeeeeak. Fear pummels through me hard and fast, sending chills up my back and forming goose bumps on my legs and arms. Quickly reaching for my trusty letter opener, and upon not finding it, grabbing a sharpened wooden number two pencil instead, I boldly mask my fear by marching straight for the kitchen and the door. Only to find once again, that it is unopened. “What the fuck?” I whisper aloud, finding my voice shaky with quickening fear. I do another complete check of the house. Again finding nothing disturbed. A feeling of wrongness enters me, as I step back into the dining room. I cross the dining room and sit in my computer chair. As I reach across the desk to put my pencil-weapon back in the cup where it belongs, I notice in my peripheral vision, my letter opener on the floor to my right. Then I notice what is holding it.
A mouse.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but check myself before the hysterical sound escapes me. Despite my fears and a possible onset of hysterics, I hold fast to my almost released pencil-weapon. I deplore the fact that it is my only protection against this uncanny foe. For surely there is intelligence behind those beady red eyes. And of course, I couldn’t be wearing proper shoes or jeans, but my robe, nightdress and slippers. A sigh blows past my lips, and the mouse looks at me, its’ red eyes fixed on my arm that is to him, hidden by the desk. I quickly and soundlessly slip the pencil up the sleeve of my robe, thankful that I didn’t choose the three quarter sleeve robe instead. I pull up Microsoft Word on my computer and type two sentences in the word processing page. Mouse holding letter opener. I am afraid. I hit enter three times and then begin to type gibberish, as if I was oblivious to everything around me. I never move my eyes from the mouse. I decided that for a mouse, this Thing is huge. At least seven inches long, not including its’ tail.
Maybe it’s a rat, I think trying to rationalize a mouse holding my letter opener as weapon. Fear makes my spine straight as an arrow, and I try to relax, just incase the Thing can sense my fear.
The Thing takes action. Rising on its hind legs and running toward my right foot, it uses my letter opener as a rapier, jabbing my ankle with it. The Thing is so fast, that I am taken aback at the speed with which it moves, and are therefore unprepared for the sharp and biting pain of the letter opener sinking into my flesh. I scream, hands griping my desk hard. I notice the Thing struggling to remove his makeshift sword from my ankle, the pain of the movement is almost unbearable. I fail to notice my own whimpers and little screams. I struggle to move, to do something.
Remembering my pencil, and with much grunting and fumbling, manage it out of my sleeve, I transfer the grip, holding it in my fist. I lean over the arm of my chair and stab the Thing through the meat of its side; I hear a satisfying crack-thump as the tip of the pencil breaks when it reaches the floor. The Thing squirms flipping over and curls itself about my hand, biting me with its teeth, and scratching me with its not-so-tiny claws. This time I do hear my own screams. Loud and full of terror.
Get it off! Get it off! GET IT OFF!!
Hysterics finally claim my mind, being to much for me to handle, I let them. Still sitting in the chair, with the Thing wrapped about my hand and half of my upper forearm, I shake my arm fast trying to dislodge my unwanted clinging rodent.
Finally, I realize through my hysterics that if it becomes dislodged it could run anywhere and I wouldn’t have a chance at finding it; I stand on my feet, almost collapsing at the pain that shoots up my calf from my wound. The letter opener still sticking halfway out of my ankle, blood oozing out the sides of the metal. I tighten my fist about the furry evil Thing, and with deliberate steps, head toward the closest wall. The Things squeals loudly, the meat of my hand between first finger and thumb muffling this noise. The Thing bites harder, and I quicken my painful step. My arm throbbing with sharp pains as the Thing tries to bite his way free. He obviously knows what I’m going to do.
I reach the wall, and trying to protect my fingers in the process, slam the Thing into the wall repeatedly with as much force as I can. Grunting noises issue from my mouth, squealing noises emit from the Thing. Sweating profusely, I reach my arm back for one more mighty swing against the wall. Crrrrrrrruckkkkkkthummmmmp! I hear the crack of my own hand breaking, but no longer does the Thing move. It is dead. Just to be sure, I head for the kitchen, intent on finding a big enough pan to boil the fucker in, when I run into a man.
A man standing in my kitchen.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand roughly and not a little bit breathlessly.
“Get her!” he orders loudly. A sharp pain slams into the back of my head, then there is nothing but darkness.
****
“Dr. Henry, call in your colleagues, see to this woman’s health. Stenson, gather your men, and get this mess cleaned up. I trust that you will be thorough.“ Jack Furlough issues these orders in a calm but clear voice, which does not display the hidden turmoil that is seething inside him. Who would ever have thought that tracking this rat would have given them such problems? Jack muses. He had been watching the girl, ever since her second trip through the house, and had admired her perceptiveness, seeing the rat, and taking immediate action. Though he had been worried, worried that her hysterics would rob her of common sense. He had seen such before. They had been tracking the rat for only one day. Just one day, and two people killed, with one wounded. It took fifteen of our best men to track it, but only one woman to kill it, he thinks with irony.
Stenson gathers his crew and starts to clear up any traces that this Visitor may have left. Jack looks at the immobile Dr. Trevor Henry, and frowns.
“Dr. Henry!” Trevor jumps and looks at Jack with confusion playing on his features. “Do I need to repeat myself, Doctor?” Jack inquires impatiently.
“No, Jack. I.. I..” Trevor stammers.
“Indeed Doctor, indeed.” Jack replies, lifting his left eyebrow.
Trevor turns and summons the other two doctors and instructs them to decontaminate the house. Meanwhile, he commandeers three men to get the woman on a stretcher, and into the rear of the SUV. In less than twenty minutes, there are no traces that a titanic fight between a woman and an extraordinary rat had ever occurred.
“Round up, let’s head out.” Jack orders quietly as he grabs the locked plastic box that contains one dead ‘rat’.
Ten minutes later, after all the gravel dust settles, one house, surrounded by evergreen trees and open untilled fields, finds itself eerily quiet.
By Meagan Blanchard
Copyright 3.27.05
I hear the back door opening. The hinges having not been oiled in years, creaking their protest loudly. I turn from my computer desk in the dining room, heart beating frantically. I’ve always loved the nights, the solitude, the quiet, but this is what I hate about being alone at night; the unidentifiable creaks, noises, bumps, and now of course, this. I get up slowly, simultaneously grabbing a metal letter opener from the green pottery cup that holds an assortment of rulers, pens, pencils, and one tire air pressure gauge. Heart pumping overly loud and with my letter opener at the ready, I slowly cross the dining room floor, my fuzzy white house slippers not even making a whisper of noise on the old tan carpet. I reach the doorway to the kitchen, my body concealed behind the wall, and lean my head and eyes over the right side of the entryway.
Spying nothing out of the ordinary, I step full into view, and boldly check the door handle for obvious tampering of the lock. There are no scratch marks or signs of forcing; the lock is secure and the door closed. Looking a might perplexed, I head back toward the dining room absently thinking of horror movies and the women leads that always forget to look behind them. Upon the culmination of that thought, I thoroughly check every room in the house. Nothing is amiss. Completely confused and almost convinced that I am - without a doubt - crazy, I head back to my computer desk to complete unanswered emails.
After an hour of diligent work, I hear the door open again. Creeeeeeeeeeeeak. Fear pummels through me hard and fast, sending chills up my back and forming goose bumps on my legs and arms. Quickly reaching for my trusty letter opener, and upon not finding it, grabbing a sharpened wooden number two pencil instead, I boldly mask my fear by marching straight for the kitchen and the door. Only to find once again, that it is unopened. “What the fuck?” I whisper aloud, finding my voice shaky with quickening fear. I do another complete check of the house. Again finding nothing disturbed. A feeling of wrongness enters me, as I step back into the dining room. I cross the dining room and sit in my computer chair. As I reach across the desk to put my pencil-weapon back in the cup where it belongs, I notice in my peripheral vision, my letter opener on the floor to my right. Then I notice what is holding it.
A mouse.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but check myself before the hysterical sound escapes me. Despite my fears and a possible onset of hysterics, I hold fast to my almost released pencil-weapon. I deplore the fact that it is my only protection against this uncanny foe. For surely there is intelligence behind those beady red eyes. And of course, I couldn’t be wearing proper shoes or jeans, but my robe, nightdress and slippers. A sigh blows past my lips, and the mouse looks at me, its’ red eyes fixed on my arm that is to him, hidden by the desk. I quickly and soundlessly slip the pencil up the sleeve of my robe, thankful that I didn’t choose the three quarter sleeve robe instead. I pull up Microsoft Word on my computer and type two sentences in the word processing page. Mouse holding letter opener. I am afraid. I hit enter three times and then begin to type gibberish, as if I was oblivious to everything around me. I never move my eyes from the mouse. I decided that for a mouse, this Thing is huge. At least seven inches long, not including its’ tail.
Maybe it’s a rat, I think trying to rationalize a mouse holding my letter opener as weapon. Fear makes my spine straight as an arrow, and I try to relax, just incase the Thing can sense my fear.
The Thing takes action. Rising on its hind legs and running toward my right foot, it uses my letter opener as a rapier, jabbing my ankle with it. The Thing is so fast, that I am taken aback at the speed with which it moves, and are therefore unprepared for the sharp and biting pain of the letter opener sinking into my flesh. I scream, hands griping my desk hard. I notice the Thing struggling to remove his makeshift sword from my ankle, the pain of the movement is almost unbearable. I fail to notice my own whimpers and little screams. I struggle to move, to do something.
Remembering my pencil, and with much grunting and fumbling, manage it out of my sleeve, I transfer the grip, holding it in my fist. I lean over the arm of my chair and stab the Thing through the meat of its side; I hear a satisfying crack-thump as the tip of the pencil breaks when it reaches the floor. The Thing squirms flipping over and curls itself about my hand, biting me with its teeth, and scratching me with its not-so-tiny claws. This time I do hear my own screams. Loud and full of terror.
Get it off! Get it off! GET IT OFF!!
Hysterics finally claim my mind, being to much for me to handle, I let them. Still sitting in the chair, with the Thing wrapped about my hand and half of my upper forearm, I shake my arm fast trying to dislodge my unwanted clinging rodent.
Finally, I realize through my hysterics that if it becomes dislodged it could run anywhere and I wouldn’t have a chance at finding it; I stand on my feet, almost collapsing at the pain that shoots up my calf from my wound. The letter opener still sticking halfway out of my ankle, blood oozing out the sides of the metal. I tighten my fist about the furry evil Thing, and with deliberate steps, head toward the closest wall. The Things squeals loudly, the meat of my hand between first finger and thumb muffling this noise. The Thing bites harder, and I quicken my painful step. My arm throbbing with sharp pains as the Thing tries to bite his way free. He obviously knows what I’m going to do.
I reach the wall, and trying to protect my fingers in the process, slam the Thing into the wall repeatedly with as much force as I can. Grunting noises issue from my mouth, squealing noises emit from the Thing. Sweating profusely, I reach my arm back for one more mighty swing against the wall. Crrrrrrrruckkkkkkthummmmmp! I hear the crack of my own hand breaking, but no longer does the Thing move. It is dead. Just to be sure, I head for the kitchen, intent on finding a big enough pan to boil the fucker in, when I run into a man.
A man standing in my kitchen.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand roughly and not a little bit breathlessly.
“Get her!” he orders loudly. A sharp pain slams into the back of my head, then there is nothing but darkness.
****
“Dr. Henry, call in your colleagues, see to this woman’s health. Stenson, gather your men, and get this mess cleaned up. I trust that you will be thorough.“ Jack Furlough issues these orders in a calm but clear voice, which does not display the hidden turmoil that is seething inside him. Who would ever have thought that tracking this rat would have given them such problems? Jack muses. He had been watching the girl, ever since her second trip through the house, and had admired her perceptiveness, seeing the rat, and taking immediate action. Though he had been worried, worried that her hysterics would rob her of common sense. He had seen such before. They had been tracking the rat for only one day. Just one day, and two people killed, with one wounded. It took fifteen of our best men to track it, but only one woman to kill it, he thinks with irony.
Stenson gathers his crew and starts to clear up any traces that this Visitor may have left. Jack looks at the immobile Dr. Trevor Henry, and frowns.
“Dr. Henry!” Trevor jumps and looks at Jack with confusion playing on his features. “Do I need to repeat myself, Doctor?” Jack inquires impatiently.
“No, Jack. I.. I..” Trevor stammers.
“Indeed Doctor, indeed.” Jack replies, lifting his left eyebrow.
Trevor turns and summons the other two doctors and instructs them to decontaminate the house. Meanwhile, he commandeers three men to get the woman on a stretcher, and into the rear of the SUV. In less than twenty minutes, there are no traces that a titanic fight between a woman and an extraordinary rat had ever occurred.
“Round up, let’s head out.” Jack orders quietly as he grabs the locked plastic box that contains one dead ‘rat’.
Ten minutes later, after all the gravel dust settles, one house, surrounded by evergreen trees and open untilled fields, finds itself eerily quiet.
posted by Mighty Meagan | 4/23/2005 01:43:00 AM
2 Comments:
Thank you bro!!!!
*dances in glee*
OMG Heya girly!
Thanks for reading my story. :D Compliments comming from you are indeed mighty mighty.
Hugs
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