Loading...
Menu
Ebooks   ➡  Fiction  ➡  Horror  ➡  Weird fiction

Thread. Bare.

Thread. Bare.

J. Dean

Shakespir Edition

 

 

Copyright 2016, J. Dean

 

 

For other titles by J. Dean, please visit http://enterthevein.wordpress.com

 

 

Shakespir Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Shakespir.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

For Stephen King

(You did this to me… darn it)

 

 

Anna hadn’t noticed the thread yesterday.

Yet there it was this morning, protruding from the corner of the living room wall, like a thin, curious snake looking for shelter from the hot summer sun.

It wasn’t there yesterday. But it was there now.

She knelt beside it. Touched it.

It did nothing, except for tickle her palm.

She giggled.

She ran her finger alongside the thread.

It felt… different. Not like the yarn her mother used for knitting, or the thin spooled string that mother coiled and constricted around the eye of a needle in order to fix a button or hem pants. No, this felt like something else. Almost like a blade of grass.

Anna didn’t think that was right. Grass didn’t grow indoors, certainly not on the plush cream carpet that blanketed the living room. And not from the almost-white (What did mother call it? Eggshell?) walls.

But it still felt like grass.

Well, Anna decided, there was only one thing to do.

Pull the thread.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

In came the grassy green, flat and waxy like a leaf. Short, then longer, then longer, then much longer, it squirmed and wriggled and serpentined in with each tug. Without resistance, without breaking, it heeded each of Anna’s tug with perfect obedience, continuing to slip through the corner where walls and floor met.

Then the green was gone.

In it’s place was a different color. Brown. Or maybe black.

Anna stopped, looked at the thread.

Why did it change color?

It didn’t matter. Anna knew that it didn’t belong there, even if it did act like a chameleon and change colors.

Maybe it did that because it knew she was trying to take it out, and it didn’t want to come out.

It didn’t matter, Anna thought. I’m taking you out.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

In came the brown, soft and yielding. Like a string made of mud or dirt. It worked its way in with each tug, never breaking but never stopping.

Somewhere in the other room, mother was on the phone, using a word she once swatted Anna for using.

Anna didn’t care. She wanted to pull the thread.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

But the thread was no longer brown.

It had changed to grey. A coarse, rough grey like the sides of a stone or the surface of a sidewalk that Anna used for bringing flowers to bloom with chalk. It didn’t want to bend or twist like the brown and the green had. But it still flowed through the wall.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

And the thread changed for her again.

It turned into brown again, but a different brown. Not the soft, yielding brown, but a harder brown. A brown that resisted her, like the bark of a tree that tried to hold its place when she picked at it.

Somewhere in the other room, mother was talking to nobody about what she’d like to do to whoever it was she had just called. She sounded like she did when she caught Anna getting in the cookies.

Anna didn’t like that.

But mother wasn’t mad at her, so she didn’t care.

And the thread kept coming.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

And the thread performed again.

Now it had no color. Invisible but visible, like glass. But cool and soft, like the brown she had pulled out earlier. It moistened her fingertips as she tugged. She liked the sensation. Like playing in a pool of rainwater.

Mother didn’t like that either. Once, she used the bad word at Anna for doing that.

But mother wasn’t mad at her now, so she didn’t care.

And the thread kept coming.

So she pulled it.

Anna wondered what the thread she had pulled through looked like.

Maybe a mountain of colors.

Maybe a yarn ball suitable for a sweater, something mother could use.

She looked beside her.

But there was nothing. Only the length of thread in her hand, and nothing more.

Anna frowned. Where did it go?

It went nowhere, said her mind.

Well, that wouldn’t suffice. She’d have to make a pile.

And the thread kept coming.

So she pulled it.

Anna pulled the thread.

She would not stop pulling the thread.

It turned red and blue and yellow and white and purple and pink and colors she didn’t know what to call. But it would not stop coming.

It felt like metal and plastic and hair and meat and carrots and rock and people—

(and people?)

—and sticky and dry and soft and rough and sandy and hot and smelly and sweet and filthy and chalky.

Mother said something about outside.

And still there was no pile of thread.

But Anna did not stop.

So she pulled it.

Mother said something else. Milk from the store. Don’t go anywhere.

Anna nodded, but she pulled the thread, now a white, milky line.

Anna wanted to drink that line.

Feet in fancy black shoes clopped across the floor.

A door opened.

Mother screamed.

Anna stopped.

She looked at the wide open door. Mother was not there.

She stood up, ran to the door.

Mother was not there.

And neither was the world.

There was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing beyond the door.

Anna looked back at the corner.

There was no more thread.

 

******************

 

Dear Reader,

I want to thank you for taking the time to enjoy the second book in the Vein series, and hope that you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. If you liked this or any of the other stories I have placed on Shakespir, please feel free to give it a public review, and let me know what you thought as well personally by leaving me a comment on My author blog at http://enterthevein.wordpress.com . I appreciate your feedback and also invite you to check out the first novel of my epic series, The Summoning of Clade Josso, as well as my other works, also available on Shakespir.

 

Sincerely,

J. Dean

 

About the author: J. Dean is the author of the Vein project, his first serious venture into the realm of professional writing. A graduate of the University of Michigan, he teaches foreign language in public school and also gives private tutoring sessions, but is hoping that the Vein project will serve as a springboard for becoming a full-time writer. Mr. Dean plays guitar, bass guitar, and enjoys other hobbies such as target shooting, martial arts, and cuisine experimentation in the kitchen. He and his wife have two children and live in Michigan.


Thread. Bare.

  • ISBN: 9781370233175
  • Author: J Dean
  • Published: 2016-08-12 23:05:07
  • Words: 1246
Thread. Bare. Thread. Bare.