Door to Midnight (renamed from the last) Continued

There were a few changes made to accomodate the continued story, so have fun reading! Please read till the end, that’s all I can say without any spoilers revealed!

“Evening Mr. Daves, or would you rather be addressed as Thomas? Come in, and close the door behind you. Tell me, what brings you here at this odd hour of the day?”

 Tom never felt so much conceded like in Jack and the Beanstalk before and was glad that the first question covered partially the necessity of addressing the second one.

 “The latter, sir,” he uttered meekly, “and how may I address you sir?” he treaded upon his words like of a crippled in a minefield.

 The room was horrendously empty, with peeling walls reminiscent of the dangling creepers and in the middle of it was chairs placed in a circle, surrounding a rickety round table that has lost its physical purpose for there was not a thing in the room to place on it, but somehow or other, it looked like it belonged over there…in the center.   

Motioning him with a suave sweep of his hand, Tom was assigned to a chair directly opposite the giant who pulled 3 chairs together and sat down cautiously. Evidently, the oak affairs were designed for someone of a smaller build than him. The room did not seem to be lived in but there was some aura in it that suggests a deliberate effect.

 “Yes Master,” he swerved, avoiding introduction, in a business-like manner, “what can I do for you?”

 This time, our poet was sufficiently quizzed to bear his innocence of the matter, but again, his innate curiosity has not yet been fed to satisfaction and he decided to play along with the game. After all, the giant seemed friendly and tame…

 Mustering up his courage, he spoke, in an inquiring voice reminiscent of a diner who surrenders the fate of his gastronomy to his cook, “What’s in for today?”

 Alack! Tom had hit the right buttons, or so he thought.

 “Bean sprouts, my dear.” Said the giant.

 Is it him or did he sight a sardonic smile spreading over his thin, cruel lips?   

And the chair below him creaked dangerously…   

Tom knew something is terribly wrong and above all, he was like a trapped fly, resigning his fate to his cook with a penchant for bean sprouts.   

The giant did not seem to have achieved the physical effect he had wanted—Tom’s poker face was mummified down to the very toes and other than a slight cringe of the brow that would have gone unnoticed without sharp scrutiny.   

Who would have known that Tom was palpitating with fear and anxiety inside, after an encounter with the dementers, a term he decided to brand the elfiantwith. And all the giant gave to this thought was a gentle glance and a smile—a code that seemed to speak much more. To this, Tom brushed it away with an air of disdain, anyhow or other, he was in control of his maze and the giant was his creation after all, dismissal could come in anytime he wished.   

But who else would have been better at mind-reading other than the one who introduces Tom’s name even before he was granted a chance to speak? It was, as it seldom is, a severe misjudgment on the side of Tom’s.

 And on came a blow of chill that raised many a goose bumps, before settling eventually at the pit bottom of his stomach, dragging along with it all the guts he had ever accumulated since he walked into the spider’s palour. Things fallen to that depth need a lot of fishing outs and Tom being Tom had already calculated this moment of sinking—bottom line: throw more things in to recoup the object.  

 The silence was unsettling. The huge door salved any possible attempts of fillers in the form of sparrows on the rooftops to the time when the skies fall down. Seriously, how else could the giant have heard Tom outside the sound-proof barrier other than means of the…   

“Not appetizing enough for you, sir?” With a mocking smirk, the giant suddenly took on the role of a demanding butler-cook who triumphs over his master.   

“How about something else to play with while we think of ideas for supper?” he glided ominously.

And Tom the fly just tilted his neck several times to acknowledge the rhetoric. It was all he could do to a creature who could smother him with a palm.   

With a hoarse clearing of the throat, he spoke matter-of-factly, “Since you have summoned me, Master, I give you till midnight to summon something for yourself. After the clock strike 12, it will be gone.”   

Now, its all getting very interesting for Tom and he does not know what to brand this wicked fairy tale—black magic, occult? Tapping his fingers on the table whose jittery movements reflect the mental struggle in Tom’s head, he tried to occupy his eyes on memorizing the every crooks and dents in the table while thinking of something to summon. This was, of course, a prime decision.   

Meanwhile, the giant entertained himself by staring at Tom, a habit that irks our poet the most. And all of a sudden, the table was smashed into an exact symmetrical two—and all Tom gave was a little extra strength in his finger-tappings.   

He thought himself a fool to not have seized the thought earlier for he had only 3 hours more to go to midnight. It was his future books and poems that he wanted, and to see all the incoming awards and accolades to his books, that would of course satisfy the months of drought in his ink faucet. 

And before he even rehearsed his thoughts, books lined in a circle round Tom and it was only after all the awe and shock that Tom discovered that the giant disappeared without a trace. But that did not bother Tom, to hell with the black magic! All he have now is what he had wanted. Searching among the piles of books, an ominous look covered his face like an enveloping shadow. 

All that were present were his old books, books going up to ten, twenty years old and what he had wanted were to peruse his future novels, to pen them down right now ahead of time. Searching frantically with desperation, books were thrown around and loose leafs were seen flying from the poorly bounded books.  

One was caught in a rather fresh looking spider web on the door, for it would have broke into an exact two if anyone entered. 

But Tom was too elated to have noticed it, for he found his latest unfinished book “The Unfinished Symphony” bound up in loose manuscripts. But what puzzled him was that it was not yet bounded and felt extraordinary light and thin. Flipping around till the page where he left, all that greeted him were the same lines where he faced a that damn blockage. 

Smashing it on the ground, he furrowed for a random book and there was a bent at the front-most page. Curious, he read on: 

“Thomas Daves was a prolific writer who holds several award-winning books, one of them which was sighted to have sparked potential was “The Unfinished Symphony” which indeed lived up to its namesake for when Daves was found to be missing on the 1^st of August 1976. His body was never found. 

This book was one of D…” 

The clock suddenly struck 12. With a sudden recollection of time, Tom heard a knock upon the door– the spider web was snapped into two and the loose leaf fell gracefully on the ground… 

Like its Master…——————————–

Thanks for reading!