Page 1 of Malice

Chapter 1

Aster

Darkness envelops me as I cough my way back to consciousness.

Cold, hard ground digs into the flesh of my knees and palms, and while I struggle to focus on my surroundings, a shiver of foreboding moves down my spine.

Where the hell am I?

My last memory lingers in my hazy mind, and I mentally claw my way back to it. I was on my way to work, the sun was shining, and now I’m… here. Wherever here is.

Attempting to pull myself up is futile, like pushing an elephant off my back, but I’m not gonna lie here and do nothing. I dig my fingers into the rough ground, dragging my heavy body and useless legs towards an unknown destination. I’m rewarded with the sight of a large, imposing house in the distance.

I blink, and suddenly I’m on the doorstep, back on my feet and entering through the creaky wooden door. What the actual fuck? It’s like I keep checking out and then waking up somewhere new.

It’s dark.

So dark.

Unnaturally dark.

And weirdly silent.

Not even my footsteps make a sound, although the floor feels hard beneath my shoes, like marble or hardwood. I can’t make out rooms or furniture or the presence of people at all, but the urge to continue overrides the trepidation rattling my insides.

I continue walking down what must be the longest hallway in existence, still in pitch darkness, disoriented but feeling almost pulled in the direction I’m heading. The silence is broken by the sound of muffled voices and shuffling papers and what was a solid wall seconds ago, is now a doorway with dim light streaming through.

Slowly, I step toward it, then through, immediately stumbling back at the sight of the bustling activity inside. The room is large and lined with tables. People with vague, almost undetectable features, sit at them and appear to be sorting through paperwork that flits through the air on its own. Or at least that’s what it looks like to me.

“Ah, Mr. Charboneau.” A man stands from a desk, wearing a tight-fitting black suit with a white shirt and a baby blue bow tie. His dark brown hair is short, but longer in front and styled in something of a pompadour, like the pictures of Frank Sinatra I’ve seen in my uncle’s house. He’s young and attractive, but his eyes creep me out. They’re an eerie gray color I’ve never seen on a person before. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me? Where the hell am I?”

I hear a child’s giggle and wonder where it came from, until I see blonde curly pigtails peeking out from behind the man speaking to me. What is a child doing here in this strange place?

“I am Farnsworth Renard. Your guide.”

“Guide to what? How did I get here? I should be at work right now.”

The people sitting around the tables all chuckle at the same time, but it’s brief, as if scripted.

“I don’t think they’ll be looking for you,” Farnsworth says, glancing at his watch.

The child behind his legs peers out at me again, and I see a bit more of her face.

“Hello.” I wave to her.

The child darts out of sight, still giggling.

“That’s Abigail. She’s very sweet, but shy at first. She’ll come around.”

“Is she your… daughter?”

Everyone laughs again.

“Oh no.” Farnsworth creases his brow and clicks his teeth at me. “Abigail came to us six years ago, sadly.”

“Sadly? Why is it sad? Are you going to tell me where I’m at?”

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