Stolen Tongues
Felix Blackwell
Stolen Tongues
Copyright © 2017 by Felix Blackwell
www.felixblackwell.com
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The moral right of Felix Blackwell as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
All artwork by the brilliant Lorinda Tomko.
www.lorindatomko.com
Copyright © 2017 Felix Blackwell
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1533240418
ISBN-13: 978-1533240415
Dedicated to Holly, AKA “Faye”
There are many things that make me afraid to go to sleep
You, on the other hand, make me afraid to stay awake
With special thanks for making this novel possible:
Jeff Mumaugh
Rory Collins
John DeSantis
Saurabh Dutta
Jesse Laabs
Laren Lee
Michael O’Brien
Tanya Quarry
Gina Baird
Daniel Parco
Molly Walker
Colin J. Northwood
In April 2016, while avoiding my research obligations, I browsed horror stories on reddit.com’s famous NoSleep forum. Compelled to join the fun, I quickly wrote a story inspired by my fiancée’s sleep disorder and submitted it. The response was overwhelming. So I wrote an update. And another. And another. Within a few months, I had signed a film deal. Readers encouraged me to crowdfund the story into a proper novel, and this book is the result.
What you’ll find here is not simply the text of my reddit posts. This novel is a fully developed and expanded version of those events, which, due to the limitations of forum posting, were only briefly described in their original format. I hope readers will find this book far more immersive.
To every single person who donated to the Kickstarter campaign, to everyone who supported and encouraged me on reddit, to the creative and inspiring NoSleep community, and to my friends and family – thank you so much. I could not have done this without you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
PART I Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART II Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART III Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PART IV Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
A Word on Natives in Fiction
About the Author
Prologue
Deep in the Rocky Mountains, at the top of a howling peak, sits a cabin. It is a lonely and unremarkable thing, nestled at the end of a winding gravel road and surrounded by a crescent of woods. There are no other houses nearby, and if not for the distant town it overlooks, a visitor to this cabin might get the impression that she was entirely cut off from the world.
It is at this site that my life descended into a surreal nightmare. What happened on that mountain left permanent scars on my body and heart, but it also threw light onto seemingly unrelated events that occurred long before. And so, this story begins years prior to the incident at that wretched place.
I’ve known my best friend Colin since we were little. On his ninth birthday, his mom bought him a bird for a pet – an African grey parrot. They’re quite smart and good with kids, so the bird ended up being wildly amusing to both of us. Naturally, we tried to teach her swear words, but her first word ended up being “carrot,” so we named her Carrot the parrot.
I never realized it until I was much older, but Carrot did a whole lot more than just learn words and repeat them. She recognized people and greeted them uniquely; she learned to speak politely to Colin’s mom but addressed Colin’s little brother via “Hello, twerp!” Sometimes she’d even try to comfort people when she heard them arguing or crying, usually by saying things like “Don’t cry” or “I love you.”
The bird knew people by their faces and voices, so she would sometimes get upset when she saw an unfamiliar person. When we were twelve years old, Colin and I put on Halloween masks and spoke to Carrot. It was amazing watching her try to reconcile our familiar voices with the strange new faces. You could actually see in her expression how puzzled she was. In response to some Halloween masks, she’d even shriek “Ugly! Ugly!” and flap her little wings.
I came to know Colin because we lived on the same street. Whenever I’d head up the walkway to his front door, Carrot would shout “Knock-knock!” before I arrived, obviating the need to ring the bell. At times she’d play games with us; if I walked away from her cage, she would say, “colder…colder…” and as I walked toward it, she would say, “warmer…warmer…” At the time I never appreciated how sharp she was, but in retrospect, Carrot was cognizant of everything going on around her. And that is what made her so frightening.
When I was a senior in college, I started dating a woman named Faye. Colin had just recently gotten married, and asked us to look after his pets while he and his wife Gabriella went on honeymoon. At that time, they lived up in the mountains in a rather impressive old house, left to Gabriella after the untimely death of her father. It was only a forty-five-minute drive from our campus, so Faye and I happily obliged. I was thrilled to see the parrot again, and to get away from school for a few days with my new girlfriend.
I could hear Carrot’s trademark “Knock-knock!” as we fumbled with the old door, and she lit up when we walked in. Although she hadn’t seen me in a few years, the bird still recognized me, and was even curious about Faye. There were also two excitable huskies named Boomer and Chewie, so we had plenty of animals to keep us entertained.
The bird’s cage sat in the breakfast nook, which overlooked a little grove of trees outside. There was a glass door that slid open in that room, leading out to a deck. Whenever Faye and I left it open for fresh air, Carrot would shout “Up yours!” and “Damn liberals!” at the hummingbirds that flitted by. Colin had taught her all kinds of silly phrases to embarrass Gabriella whenever they had company over. Faye and I spent the first evening on the couch watching movies and laughing at Carrot’s ridiculous prattle.
Later that night, I found myself alone at the table, working on a paper. Faye was asleep on the couch; I could see only her strawberry curls dangling just above the snoring dogs on the floor. The TV was off. Carrot had relaxed and was watching me
quietly from her cage, and in that moment I realized how dreadfully silent it was. Not just the animals, not just the house, but the entire forest outside had fallen utterly still. The quiet lulled me out of focus and crushed my will to be productive, so I woke up Faye and the dogs and we headed upstairs to the guest room.
There is a brief moment at night when the brain is neither awake nor asleep, but somewhere in between. In that moment, I sometimes hear things – distant voices or odd sounds. Normally I dismiss them as the wisps of dreams, just barely taking form at the edge of consciousness. So when I heard a noise on this particular night, I ignored it as long as I could. But the sound kept invading my mind, over and over. Eventually I sat up in bed, trying to determine whether the noise was real. After a moment, I heard Carrot chattering downstairs. As I recalled from my childhood, she almost never speaks when she’s by herself, and virtually never makes any noises at night. But now she was mimicking laughter and saying “Hello! Hello!”
I assumed the bird was trying to get my attention, so I went down to check her food bowl. When I flipped on the light, Carrot was staring up at the ceiling, captivated by something I couldn’t see. I figured she’d spotted one of the many moths we’d let in earlier while taking the dogs out. The bird refused to speak to me at all. I shrugged and went back to bed. She grumbled a few more times that night as I fell asleep, but I couldn’t make anything out.
The next morning, it was brilliantly sunny outside, so Faye and I took the dogs for a hike in the woods. We explored for a bit and returned home around lunchtime. As we approached the sliding glass door in the back, I could hear Carrot yelling “Knock-knock!” and “Hello!” from inside. She flapped her little wings in salutation as we entered and whistled excitedly. The day carried on with more of her nonsensical jabbering, but as twilight descended, the bird’s behavior changed. She appeared fixated on the sliding glass door, and on a window in the kitchen, occasionally cocking her head to study them intently. Faye was the one to notice this time, but she dismissed it as Carrot hearing owls or catching glimpses of bats near the porch.
That night as we lay in bed, Boomer and Chewie seemed agitated. They kept getting up from their doggy beds and looking around, sniffing in the direction of the hall, and jolting awake shortly after settling down. The jingling of their collars began to drive me insane, so I led the dogs into the master bedroom with the intent of locking them in. As I did, Carrot called out from downstairs, “Knock-knock! Knock-knock!”
Feeling a little creeped out, I went down and checked on her. She was again engrossed with the glass door. There was nothing to see out there; it was just a wall of soupy darkness. Even when I flicked on the porch light, only an empty deck and the faint outlines of nearby trees could be seen. I closed the blinds, hoping they’d pacify Carrot, and trudged back upstairs.
The moment I hit the second floor, the bird shrieked, “Knock-knock!” This time her call positively unnerved me. I jogged down the flight and stormed to the front door, glaring out the peep hole with the wild expectation that a madman would be standing there clutching a knife. Alas, there was no one, just an empty footpath that led down to the dark street. As I pulled my face away from the door, Carrot mimicked growling noises, then laughter.
My heart fluttered in my chest. Was this a trick that Colin had taught his bird to play on me? I circled the first floor, turning on every light and investigating every room, but found nothing out of the ordinary. I sighed with defeat and sleepiness, told Carrot to shut the hell up, and went back to bed. While closing the bedroom door, I heard her call out softly, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”
Faye laughed at me when I told her of the previous night’s events. She spent that Saturday playfully mocking my credulity and baby-talking the parrot.
“Did you play a trick on Felix?” she’d ask while scratching the bird’s cheeks. Carrot reveled in the attention and mumbled her pleasure. “Yes you did. You scared him good! What did you see? You see those bats on the porch?”
We barbecued on the patio and took the dogs for an afternoon romp through the forest, this time much farther out, and barely found our way back in the dying light. Strange noises emanated all around us from deep in the woods, prompting eruptions of frenzied barking from the dogs every few minutes. By the time we got back to the porch, the gloom had deepened to nearly black, making the glowing lights of the house look warm and inviting.
Carrot, however, was not as welcoming. She cowered at the bottom of her cage beneath her perch and behind a swinging rope. She looked up at me, apparently relieved, and cautiously edged out of her hiding place. Faye opened the cage and coaxed the parrot to step onto her hand.
“What’s wrong, pretty bird?” she asked in a motherly voice. “You hear a scary noise?” Faye stroked Carrot’s head, trying to calm her, but the bird kept glancing over to the sliding glass door.
“She’s shaking,” Faye said, turning to me. “Scared to death.”
I checked to ensure that the door was locked, squinted into the darkness beyond it, then drew the blinds and joined Faye in her attempt to soothe the bird. Eventually, Carrot relaxed enough to be returned to her cage without a fuss, but the bird’s disposition only added to our growing unease. There was definitely something strange up here on the mountain.
That night, as Faye and I were lying in bed watching a movie on my laptop, there came a commotion from downstairs. It sounded like utensils being spilled in the kitchen, but I realized after a moment that it was Carrot’s cage. The bird shrieked and the dogs started barking. I leaped out of bed and flew down the stairs to find Boomer and Chewie snarling at the patio door. The bird’s cage lay on the ground, Carrot flapping around inside it.
I raced over and set the cage upright, then yanked the blinds open. The porch was empty, and a breeze set the nearby woods fluttering. I pulled at the door to ensure it was still locked. Satisfied that no one had come through it, I searched the house once again, and once again found nothing out of the ordinary. When I passed a large portrait of Gabriella’s late father, thoughts of his ghost shuffling through the halls drifted into my mind. I wondered if he was still here – then shook the idea from my head.
Faye called out from the top of the stairs, asking what had happened.
“The dogs heard something outside and started freaking out,” I said. “I think Carrot got upset and knocked her own cage off the table.” The explanation didn’t satisfy either of us, but it was the only one I was willing to consider.
“Bring her upstairs,” Faye replied. “We can put her up here tonight. See if that calms her down.”
I laughed.
“Are you kidding? She’ll keep us up all night.”
My protest fell on deaf ears; Faye had already descended the stairs and walked up behind me.
“We’ll keep her up all night,” she said, stabbing a finger into my ribs. I immediately abandoned my resistance and nodded in total agreement.
“Dogs too,” she said, grabbing the cage and whistling at Chewie and Boomer. They trotted up the stairs behind her, overjoyed to be allowed back into our bedroom. They, like Carrot, did not like to sleep alone – especially not downstairs, for some reason. I shrugged helplessly and followed everyone back to the guest room, closing the door and locking us inside.
It was nearly 2 A.M. when I awoke to the bird chattering in the dark.
“Don’t cry…Don’t cry…” she repeated from across the room. I reached over a sleeping Faye and grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand, using it to illuminate the room in a faint glow. Carrot was sitting on her perch, facing the bedroom door. She craned her head to the side, listening intently to something I couldn’t hear, and opened her mouth as if considering what to say. Chewie dug her snout under the door and sniffed around while Boomer sat rigid, ears perked, head jerking back and forth as he tried to hone in on whatever Carrot sensed.
Faye mumbled something in her sleep, but I could barely make it out. It sounded like, “…where they find…it’s where he is…
no, no…”
Boomer whimpered, and Chewie withdrew from the door. She retreated to Boomer’s side and sat down next to him. The bird called out, “colder, colder,” reciting the words to the game we used to play as kids.
I shook Faye awake and motioned to the scene before us, then pressed my finger to my lips. She remained quiet but her eyes screamed in terror; even in the dark I could see their whites. She huddled there under the blanket as I got out of bed and slipped my jeans on.
Carrot flapped her wings and called out, “Warmer…warmer…” The dogs stood up defensively, but did not bark or growl. They only listened, and occasionally glanced at each other and back at me.
“Warmer! Warmer!” the bird cried, beating her wings faster. After a few seconds, she ceased her movements and looked up at me, then back at the door, and said in a softer voice, “Knock-knock.”
I stood rooted to the floor, breath caught in my throat. The door rattled gently in its frame, as if someone had pressed an ear against it. The silence was only broken when Faye whispered, “Don’t open it.”
Her words didn’t register in my brain. I reached out and pulled the door open slowly. It issued a loud creak that echoed through the house. There was no one there. I felt the dogs brush past my legs as I stood in the doorway. They stood before me, motionless, gazing down the darkness of the hallway. At the far end, the master bedroom door was open. Inside it was pitch black, but the dogs peered in as though they could see something.
Stolen Tongues Page 1
