Bartholomew's Flower Garden

This is the start of a book I am writing

This is the Prologue from my new book I am working on......... Prologue As the reporter walked down the long white hall he looked down at the white floor and then up at the white ceiling. He then quickly looked back down at the white floor. He could hear the sounds of blood curdling screams and loud mumbling as he passed by each black door in the long white hall. As he passed each door he walked quicker so he could catch up with the tall skinny guard. The reporter finally caught up with the guard when the guard stopped in front of the last black door at the end of the long white hall.  The reporter stood beside the guard and they both stared at the black door. About six feet up and near the center of the black door was what looked like a ships porthole. The reporter looked up at the guard and the guard looked down at the short stocky reporter but neither said nothing. The guard nodded his head toward the black door as if to say, “go on you asked for this.” The reporter slowly turned and faced the door once more and scooted his feet toward the black door. Though he was moving toward the black door it seemed to him as if he was not moving. When he finally got about two feet from the door he stopped and turned around to look at the guard once more. The guard just kept staring straight ahead and still said nothing. The reporter walked slowly closer to the black door until he was about six inches from the door. All of a sudden a face not much bigger than the porthole window popped into view behind the black door window. The reporter quickly jumped back until he was beside the guard once more. When the reporter looked up at the guard he thought he saw the and heard the guard snicker. The guard kept looking straight ahead as the reporter turned back to look at the face he saw in the window of the black door. From the look of the face it looked as if the man had not slept in a couple of months. The white in his eyes were blood red and his hair was pointing in all directions. The reporter later found out that the man behind the black door was not allowed to have a comb because he might try to kill himself with it. As a matter of fact, he was not allowed anything that he could use to hurt or kill himself. As the reporter kept staring at the face in the window he noticed that the lips on the face were moving. The reporter was so frightened that he could not make out what they were saying to him. He then saw the face disappear from the window. Finally the reporters curiosity overcame his fright so he moved closer to the window. When he was about four inches from the door the face came out of nowhere and popped up in the window again. The reporter lurched back a few inches than steadied himself. This time he was determined to put his fear aside and do his job. He moved about two inches from the window in the black door. “Do not be afraid” said the face of the man behind the window. “I could not get out and harm you even if I wanted to, which I don't. Why are you here?” “Didn't anyone tell you?” the reporter stuttered. “Tell me?” the man laughed. “Do you think anyone comes here and tells me anything? I surmise you are like everyone else. You want to hear my story as well.” “I heard what a great detective you were, I mean are.” the reporter said. “Well I do not know if I should tell you or not. I mean no one believes me. I doubt you will believe me either.”  The reporter thought to himself and started to turn and leave. He knew the man , crazy as he may be, was probably right. He would not believe anything this man had to say nor would anyone who read his story. The reporter then thought about how he could not blow his first assignment. If he did he knew he would be fired and would have to give up his dream of being a writer and a reporter. He would have to go back to his previous job which he hated. The reporter knew he would have to find a way to get this man to tell him his story. “Don't you think the world should know the truth about what happened? Don't you think your side of the story should be shared with the world? Don't you think that the world should know what really happened to Bartholomew's flowers?” The face disappeared again from behind the window. The reporter was more determined than before to get the story from the man behind the black door. The reporter walked closer to the door until he was only about an inch from the window. He looked inside the room and saw the white padded walls in the room and saw the man he had been talking to sitting on the far wall in a black straightjacket talking to himself. The man then looked at the reporter and struggled to get up from the floor. He finally stood up and walked to the side of the room the black door was on so the reporter could not see him any more. The reporter no longer was afraid was considered this assignment more as a challenge to his skill as a writer and a reporter. This time when the face popped in the window the reporter did not move and tried to show no fear. “Alright,” the man behind the black door said, “I have deduced you are right. I must tell you my story but not for the reasons you think. I tell you not for fame or even to get me out of this place. You see, though you may not know it yet, I am safer in here than you are out there. I will tell you the truth about what happened in an effort, as futile as it may be, to let the world know what evil is already here in the world. Although, I still doubt you or anyone will believe me I guess it is still my duty to try and give a warning.” As the reporter took his notebook and pen from his pocket he knew this may just be the story for which he had always been looking. He might even forget about turning it into the newspaper that had sent him and instead write it as a book. “Are you ready?” asked the face behind the window. “Yes I am ready to hear all of the story.” the reporter said. “Very well. This is the true story of Bartholomew's flower garden”