Nightmare

Tim awoke in the foyer, his t-shirt soaked with sweat and stuck to his chest. His glasses lay beside him, severely bent at the bridge. His legs ached. He lay there for a few minutes, breathing slowly and staring up at the ceiling. More specifically, he was staring at the dim lightbulb screwed into its base which was the terminus, or perhaps the origin, of the fissure that ran all the way to the seam where ceiling became wall. His father had never gotten around to fixing that damned crack, and his mother had never stopped talking about it. It was much wider than he remembered. He thought it must've grown since his last visit, though he could not recall any particular reason why he should be at his mother's house. He hadn't been there in ages. Not since just after they had split up - separated. Started seeing younger, prettier people.
He sat up and adjusted his glasses until they resembled, mostly, their original shape. Thankfully, neither lens had left its proper place during the…fall? What had happened? Why was he here? And what was that smell? Her cats? She wasn't usually one to neglect the litter box. In fact, she had always kept an immaculate house, but the atmosphere in which he found himself now was nearly choking with the pungency of dirty ammonia and a heavy, mildewy dankness. He set the glasses carefully on his nose and inspected the room. There was a tarnished bucket in the corner which held a damaged umbrella, and neither of them had he seen before. The hardwood floors had abandoned their original luster and were now a dull gray. The moth-eaten oriental rug beneath him had taken on a shade of dull turquoise from neglect. This was not his mother's house.
The large wooden door beside him bore no windows, but an ornate brass knob worn nearly black from the salty grease of the hands that had grasped it before. He tried it in futility and resolved to further survey his surroundings. There was a staircase that was, seemingly, the only access point to the landing, save the door that would not open. He leaned over the railing to get a good look. The stairs wound around the outer walls, growing both upward and downward, and Tim could just barely make out the landing below his.
As he shakily descended the stairs, he noticed that, though his legs had pained him while he lay on the rug, any unpleasantness in his body had now vanished. But the stench from the landing only seemed to intensify with each step he took. And it was getting darker. It was funny, he didn't remember the lower floor being darker than anywhere else on the stairs. He had seen it plainly from the top. It wasn't supposed to be this dark.
The further he went, the more he had to pay careful attention to where he placed his feet. Many of the boards had been left to rot so long that they sagged deeply under his feet. A few were missing entirely. The air was damp. And warm. He heard a quiet hissing - a radiator, he figured. There had to be one in the basement, after all. He was sure he was nearing the bottom, though it was taking him a considerably shorter time to do so than he had imagined based on his view from the landing. The hissing stopped. There was silence, apart from Tim's own breathing which echoed between the walls. It started again, this time in a slightly lower pitch. Again now, but it had reverted back to its original tone. And again. Lower. He heard a board creak. And another. The sound of hard-sole shoes moving lightly on wooden stairs. Only he was wearing sneakers. And he'd stopped moving. He peered over the railing into the darkness and thought he could make out the a form moving on the stairs several levels below.
"HEY! Hey! Hello? Can you hear me? Where are we? What is this?" The figure stopped moving. "Do you know how to get out? Do you have any water?" He caught a glimpse of two bright yellow points on the stairs below him, somehow reflecting the dim light from above. The noise of the shoes began again. This time faster than before. Hurried, impatient steps. Then he heard it. A long, guttural roar issued from the steps below him and seemed to emanate from the very walls surrounding him. It pained his ears and vibrated the soles of his feet. For a few seconds, he stood. He turned. He ran. The figure was closer now, only a few flights below. The rotting smell was overpowering now, putting Tim's head into a green fog and disorienting him. His feet began to falter on the shallow stairs. He slipped and fell painfully to his knees. The footsteps behind him were louder, closer. The roar sounded again. He sprung up and continued to run. He reached the lighted foyer just as he heard the shoes directly behind him, not three feet away. As he felt the back of his shirt tighten in the grip of strong hands, he fell onto the moldy carpet and curled into a ball, unsure of what horrible end expected to meet him. The diseased fibers of the carpet filled his nostrils once again with the nauseating stench. The room went black.
After some minutes, he opened his eyes, gasping in fear. There was silence. There was nothing. He checked himself for damage. No harm but when he banged his knees on the stairs. The beast was gone. Again, he stared upward at that damned crack, putting himself back together. Breathing. He lifted himself back to his feet and began to climb.
These stairs were not like stairs he had encountered anywhere before. He could hardly fit the majority of his foot on one step. They were tall, too, forcing him to lift his body high with each step he passed. Ascending them seemed to be quickly draining him of all the energy he carried. His legs ached before. Now they burned. And he was hot. The air was hot. It was getting hotter as he climbed, as though he were nearing the heating element of a massive oven. His skin prickled from the heat. His face burned. His shirt further absorbed his perspiration as he exerted himself, hoping only to reach the next landing and, he hoped, a door that would open. He could see it now. The sweat dripped from the end of his nose and fell upon the steps beneath him, creating an odd rhythm in time with his heavy footfalls. His head felt light and his legs began to tremble. He slipped, and caught himself. All he wanted was to sit. To have his legs stop hurting. Burning. Disintegrating beneath him. As he placed his foot upon the first step of the last flight, he looked up in anticipation of the landing - the end to his pain. And there was none. The top of the stairs met only with wooden plank and wall and where there should have been yet another glorious and golden landing leading to an open door though which he would find home, there was only ceiling.
He did not understand. Why would so many stairs exist only to lead nowhere? He turned and sat upon the stairs which were his torture and he wept for his horror. For his horror to come. Visions of starvation, madness - suicide - all reached his mind at once. Tim resolved himself to the proper end. He stood and methodically placed his feet upon the stairs until he again found himself upon the landing where it had began. He searched the area for something with which to arm himself and, finding the railing of the staircase too well-constructed to remove, took up the umbrella and its bucket, though found the latter to be less practical than the foil-like shape of the umbrella. Slowly, he made his way to the stairs. He held his breath for a few seconds, unsure of the deliberate movements he was about to make. He gazed downward into the blackness and the shadow. He saw the eyes of the creature reflecting light from the center of the bottom floor. He saw the beast now in the light which had vanished upon his descent, and he understood. He looked behind him and saw nothing. He saw that he was alone. He knew that he had always been alone. Armed with his umbrella, he descended the stairs for the final time.

Author's Note

Please don't keep quiet if you read something you don't like!

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

You did a great job of conveying what a stuffy, smelly, nightmarish environment this poor soul is stuck in. Your writing is strong and imaginative. A very good tale, but you might make it better by following roarke's suggestion.

[roarke]

This piece is composed mostly of observation and feeling. It repeats like a dream and shows the desperation in a dream/nightmare. I think one thing that would make this piece click, is to add the answer to the question Why? to most of the sentences or group of observances. Good sentence structure and length. Nice job.