Flash Fiction Friday: "Flashes of Inspiration" No. 11

Prompt:

#11: "The Hallway"

For every institution in existence, there were rules that ensured a successful and functional operation. At Harold's house, there were plenty of rules to be had. 

"No shoes on the furniture."

"Don't run in the house."

"Be in bed by curfew."

"No yelling indoors!"

"Use dishes at every meal--and then clean them when you're done!"

"Clean the house before you play video games."

Harold complied, but only because he enjoyed living in a house, and the prospect of living alone and having an entire house to care for with no assistance scared him. "Without rules," his mother would say, when he would try to express his opinion, "this house would be a pigsty! Harry, you must understand," she would maintain, "these rules are for your protection." She would never say what sort of protection eating with a fork offered him, nor what she might be protecting him from. This went on for some time, and Harold's mother never changed her stance and her tune, so gradually Harold ceased trying to convince his mother--But oh! How he longed for freedom! How he longed to just experiment--even just for a day--what it would be like to have a day free of those rules. Would the whole house collapse if he neglected to vacuum the carpet just once? Would mass hysteria really ensue if his shoes came in contact with the couch cushions, even for a moment? So, as soon as he was old enough to be held responsible for daily chores, Harold did them as expected--but all the while, he watched and waited for his chance.

And one day... that chance arrived.

Harold watched his mother wave out the car window as his parents pulled out of the driveway. As soon as the car faded from sight, he would be free.

Now! Giddy with the sense of losing the burden of responsibility, he flopped on the couch and carefully placed his FEET on the crushed velvet cushions WITH HIS SHOES ON. Nobody screamed at him, no one stopped him. No one disapproved. Eighteen years he’d lived in that house, never alone—till now. He could do what he pleased.

And Harold did.

He ate food with his fingers, standing over the kitchen counter. He went down to the basement and played video games for hours. He came back up and raided the kitchen cabinets for snacks, then went back down to play some more.

Six hours later, he finished a challenge, and suddenly realized how dark it was. He had also run out of snacks, and hadn’t eaten in a while. He carefully plodded up the stairs, flicking on lights as he went.

Everything in the kitchen was exactly as he had left it—except the sun had set, and there was no moon outside. Harold wandered to the refrigerator and pulled out one of the carefully-labeled meal containers his mother had left for him. “THURSDAY DINNER” said the label. He removed the lid and put it in the microwave to heat. This time, he sat at the lonely table, and used a fork. What more would he do during the other three days his parents would be gone?

Harold stiffened over his mashed potatoes. Something rustled. He held statue-still and held his breath for good measure. There it was again! Some kind of scraping, scratching sound, coming from the far end of the house. Harold set down his fork and moved to the yawning, dark opening.

“Hello?” he called.

He could barely see the four doorways standing out dark against the pale walls in the shadows.

The first door was the bathroom he used, and across from that was his bedroom. Down the hall on the same side as his bedroom was the hallway linen closet, and at the end of the hall was the door to the master suite. Where had the noise come from?

Harold listened, trying to come up with practical explanations for it: a mouse, a rat, a stray piece of paper caught somewhere in the middle of a draft, an—OH DEAR GOD WHAT WAS THAT??

Harold fumbled for the light switch as a large black shape seemed to drift across the back wall of the hallway. In the dim golden glow of the hall lights, he saw the hallway, just as it should be—but at the end, next to the linen closet where there should have been a blank wall, he saw a corner, an opening. The scraping seemed to emanate from there.

Harold inches down the hallway, his eyes fixed on this feature that shouldn’t be there. It was indeed another hallway, but it baffled Harold. What more did they need? What was the point of extending the house in that direction? If it was an extension—it had to be! Harold began to feel that crawling sensation of doubting one’s own memory as he entered the unfamiliar space. He had lived his entire life in this house, but he was standing in a hallway he had never seen before.

He looked around. It almost mirrored the hallway he just left, except for the door at the end. There seemed to be something wrong with it. Harold shook his head and turned to go back to the kitchen—only for the scene in his entire vision to disintegrate into a thousand tiny pixels. In its place, Harold saw the metal hull of a craft of some sort, and a ramp that had just clicked shut. Engines revved under his feet, and he felt the sensation of riding an elevator higher and higher.

“At last!” moaned a croaking voice behind him.

“The Guardians leave him behind, and he wanders right into our trap!”

A foul-smelling cloth bag covered his head, and cold, scaly, lizard-like claws gripped his arms. “Finally, human, you belong to us!”

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