|A Box and Its Girl
Author: OceanFae PM
Kirsty Cotton is having a problem. The dead are rising, she's getting strange calls, and to top it all off, she's being stalked by a box.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Suspense - Kirsty & Pinhead - Chapters: 3 - Words: 4,903 - Reviews: 21 - Favs: 22 - Follows: 15 - Updated: 08-21-11 - Published: 06-15-11 - id: 7085534
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: Hello, all! Ocean's traveled into the wonderful world of Hellraiser. You should all be worried. Any-who, this is a new story, and I want it to be dark and somewhat funny, reminiscent of the Hellseeker. There is a new character that we haven't heard from before, as well as a few familiar faces from the old films. I wont give anything away, but a certain six sided someone has decided who it wants its new mommy to be- and she wont be happy.
Kirsty smiled lightly to herself as she swept the kitchen floor. The house she had bought was big, bigger than she needed, and older than she wanted. The floors creaked and there were leaks in the roof, but she used her savings and bought it anyway.
She liked the openness of the floor plan, the ability to see all the rooms in one sweep, and the big, leaky windows that rattled when the wind blew. She was still moving in, still settling, and there were boxes littering each room. She didn't have enough stuff to fit in the house. The rooms were bare without furniture and the meager table and chairs didn't do the dining room justice.
When she had moved out of her apartment, she neatly packed all of her late husband's belongings along with her own, and stacked them nicely in the center of the living room when she left. Let the buzzards have them, she thought, and she rented a truck for her own stuff. One couch, one bed, one chair, one table… not enough to fill the bottom floor, much less the whole house. But she made herself unload and unpack, tossing her old life behind her and refusing to think of death.
She smiled as she worked, moving the broom around boxes and attempting to get behind the old stove with it. The windows, the ones she could pry open, rattled as the wind whipped though the house, bringing in pollen and the smell of rain. She needed curtains, she decided, and a bookshelf. And a safe. She glanced at her rickety kitchen table, where a small box glinted inconspicuously at her.
She hadn't unpacked it yet, she was sure, yet there it was, mocking her.
"What do you want?" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at it. It glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window, looking as innocent as a hell raising puzzle box can.
She had tried getting rid of it, to her defense. She'd tossed it into dumpsters, thrown it into rivers, and on one very odd occasion, threw it off a building. But it would always turn up again, dripping and soggy, and smelling faintly of vanilla. Like a stray dog, she thought, frowning deeply at it.
She bent over the table and poked it with her finger. She could almost feel it purr in satisfaction.
"One of these days, Box, you're gonna push me too far. And where will you be, then, huh? That's right. In a car compactor, waiting to get squished to death. Now, let's go pick out some curtains."
The box seemed exited at the prospect. She already knew that she was crazy. What kind of a person would do the things she'd done, see the things she'd seen, and not come out a little loopy? But, she reasoned, the box did seem to have a mystical mojo going on, so it wasn't too farfetched that it understood her frustration with it.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, wiping the sweat and grime off her face on a dishtowel. She trotted upstairs for a change of clothes.
When she entered the room, the box seemed to be smirking at her from the bed.
"How the fuck do you do that?" She threw her hands in the air angrily, and snatched it up. "Is it too much to ask that you wait downstairs? It's not like I'm leaving you, damn it!" She placed the box on the floor outside her door like a small child. "Stay," she growled, slamming the door on it.
Somewhere downstairs, the phone began to ring. It was a shrill sound, mixing in with the sound of howling wind and fluttering newspaper, and she raised her eyebrows, startled, pulling on her shoes in a rush and hopping down the stairs.
She picked it up in confusion. Had the phone company connected her already?
"Hello?" Her voice was calm, but laced with apprehension. The wind blew harder through the house, and the sun hid behind the clouds.
"Kirsty." The voice was raspy, crackling, and dark. She knew it.
"Who is this?" Kirsty, for all her bravery, was afraid. She gripped the phone tighter, waiting for a response.
"See you soon." The line clicked, and went dead. There was no dial tone. She looked at the phone, noticing for the first time the absence of light there, and down at the base, that showed no signs of ever being plugged in. She didn't even think she packed the cord.
Kirsty, for all her bravery, was bone deep terrified.
She jumped when the phone rang again, this time from her purse. Her heart raced, as she rummaged around for it, sliding it open.
"Hello?" Anger leaked into her voice, to cover her fear.
"Mrs. Gooden?" A man's voice, startled, went on, "This is detective Casey, do you remember me?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, yes. Its Miss Cotton, again, actually. What can I help you with?" Relief soared through her, and she rolled her eyes at herself.
"Well, Miss Cotton, I'm afraid this isn't a personal call. There is an issue we have discovered, involving your late husband." The man's voice was grave.
"What?" She was confused, startled. "What issue? What's happened?"
"Well, Miss Cotton, his DNA was discovered on a crime scene. A recent one, in fact."
Her voice went hollow. "How is that possible, Detective?" The box glinted from its place by the phone, looking rather smug. She stared at it while the information sunk in.
"We're not sure. That's what we'd like to figure out. We are aware that you moved out of town."
"Yeah. I'm in the suburbs. The city was… too much."
"And your old apartment?"
"I left it. With all of his things."
"Ah. Well, the evidence… it couldn't have come from his belongings. It was… fresh. Blood and… personal fluids."
She choked. "How? How could that—"
"We're not sure. We need your permission to, ah, excavate the remains. We need to know if we're getting the wool pulled over our eyes here."
"Yes, yes, please go ahead. Let me know, if that's okay? What you…" She stopped, looking away from the box with lowered eyes. "find," she whispered, sitting down.
"Yes ma'am. I'll let you know if anything's amiss. I may need to call you again, ask you some questions."
"That's fine. Thank you, Detective," she murmured, hanging up the phone.
She looked at the box. "I think we need to have a chat with your friend." It glinted as the rain began, spilling through the windows and splashing on the hardwood.
She placed her fingers on it. "If he's back, the deal is off." The box thrummed under her touch. "We need to find him, you and I. If they notice he's gone, I'm fair game."
She sat the box down, and it seemed to pout at the lack of contact. She turned to the windows and began shutting them, slamming them down harder than necessary.
"I sent you to Hell once, I can do it again. They will not take me." She whirled around, staring at the box with wild eyes.
"We're going to need to go back, aren't we? To the city." She thought for a minute, grabbing a towel to clean up the rain off the floor. "I don't want to. But I need to know if he's back, alive, like…" She shook her head.
"We have to wait and see what they find in the grave. There's no use leaving now." She sighed and sat down. The box seemed to stare at her intensely.
"I'm not opening you until I know he's alive. For sure. Phone calls from Hell won't cut it. Your pointy friend and I aren't going to tango until I have Trevor in my hands as proof. I'm not going to take the risk of getting taken."
The box seemed to be mollified. There were many things it couldn't tell its protector. After being slung from place to place for so long, it enjoyed having one protector to keep it safe, especially one that knew its secrets and survived to see it again. As a doorway, it did not have a soul, or a true consciousness, but it was in no way inanimate—it knew what it liked and did not like. It liked its master, and it liked its protector, and it liked its protector's purse, which was soft and dark.
What it wanted, more than anything, was to be solved again, and open the doorway. It could feel the others, opening all over the world, doing their jobs and being content. It wanted to tell its protector that, and be opened, and for hell to claim her. She could always be its protector then, and it would be content.
But she wouldn't open it, through fear and strength. Until now. Soon, it would be in its master's hands, with its protector at its side, ready to do its job. It hummed gleefully, feeling the tug that brought it to her as she left the room. Wherever she went, it went.
It couldn't wait to be opened. Its master would be so pleased that it finally chose a protector.
So, Kirsty's gettin called collect, the Box is getting cheeky, and Trevor seems to be alive and... ahem... kicking. What will our wonderful damsel do now that the box has taken a liking to her? Will she ever get free of her six sided suitor? And most importantly:
WHEN IS SHE GOING TO SEE PINHEAD AGAIN?
All will be revealed, as soon as I find out myself.
Cheers, and please let me know what you think!