Return to the Marathon Fan Fiction Archive
By: Scifiteki [Matthew Simmons]
The blood drips down the walls in long, thick sheets. It runs, and runs, and runs, like a neverending river of anguish and suffering. It wends its way through the intricate channels I have carved so meticulously for it's presence, splitting and dividing and coming back together in long braids of silky red. The blood is swift and reflective, and if I pause for a moment, I can almost see myself in the long ribbons of life, distorted all out of shape. The blood runs, of course, because the thing in the basement told me to make it so.
It seems so distant, now, the day when the thing in the basement first
came into my house. Almost a lifetime ago, in fact. And that's what it has
been, hasn't it? A lifetime ago, so very long ago, when there was only the
swift motion of life going through it's paces unceasingly, leading onwards to a
day that is not really defined. I am beyond those days now, beyond the swift
meaningless pacing, beyond the far-flung unnamed day. My purpose is
different now, clearer. It's part of the plan.
I admire my handiwork on the walls, as the sheets of blood unravel down the wall, and spread out on the floor slowly, creeping like a bloody tide, always coming, never stopping. It took me a long time to make that wall, to carve those channels. I don't know how long, exactly. Time doesn't matter. The thing in the basement told me so.
I remember the knife in my hand, sticky with a tracery of fine lines, red marks etched on the silver steel. The knife is warm, comforting. Reassuring. The knife is my instrument, my grand piano for the symphony of blood that rushes down the walls over and over and coagulates across the dark sandstone floor. It's long ever-sharpened edges whisper to me, of the voice of the thing in the basement.
It is my friend and tormentor at the same time, the thing in the basement. I bought this house a long time ago, I remember. The guy who owned the house warned me about the basement, said not to dig too deep there. Not dig down to the foundations. Like I was going to make structural changes, or something. I didn't understand what he meant then. I do now. The screaming, the screaming, the screaming. Why does it scream? I don't know why it screams, nor why it asks of me these things. Except for the plan. Yes, the plan. Which is why the blood drips on and on down the walls, seeping into the sandstone floor, over and over and over with the mechanical precision that is inherent in the fine lines that I carved into the sandstone walls with their sandstone supports and their sandstone corners with my bare fingernails. The thing in the basement told me so.
The screams come again, again with the horrid chorus of voices and their mindless, chitinous shrieks, their soft, oozing, pustulant mutterings that penetrate into the corners of my mind. I am not done, they scream and whisper. There is one more thing left to do. For the plan. The important plan, the great plan, the wondrous plan. I must, for the plan. I turn, and there she is. The last step in the plan.
I can hear the blood trickling down the walls behind me, dripping and pitter-pattering. I can smell the sickly sweet stench of death that pervades this room, covering every single corner with it's syrupy, luscious scent, the scent of uncountable deaths that have gone towards the plan, and the thing in the deep darkness in the basement. I can see the complex lines of bloodwork that wind and wend their way across the floor, dried and blackened and encrusted, in spiralling patterns that turn endlessly across the floor.
And there, cowering on the other side of the room, is the last. Yes,
yes, yes, the last. She who will complete what I will begun. I stare into her
terrified blue eyes, wide and frightened. She does not know, no, no, she does
not know, but she will. I look at her clothes, her hair, all dishevelled. I put
her in the cells, for a while. The special cell, to be precise. But now her time
has come. She is crying, I notice. They all do. They don't understand! This is
the plan and the plan is right.
I don't want to, I really don't. I plead with the thing in the basement. Surely this is not necessary? Can there not be any others? I like this one. I don't want to. But the thing in the basement is unyielding, as always. Never, not once never has it changed its mind. And I must do as it says, because that's part of the plan.
I advance towards the woman, the knife in my hands filling my mind with cool crystal purpose, like the edge of the knife that I once sat for hours on end, just sharpening and sharpening until the edge was so sharp I could not touch the edge without drawing blood. The blood dripped down onto the floor and splashed lightly on the floor. Like the blood on the walls. I raise the knife high, and look down on her one last time. Her long blonde hair is covering her face, in long honey-coloured strands, and the tears run freely down her face. I don't remember where I found her, I realise. Many things have been fading, recently. Fading away from my mind, slipping away like the cool sweet rivers of blood. The plan is everything, and the thing in the basement told me so. He has told me everything. And then I reach down, and cut her throat wide open, so that the blood pours out nice and quick. And in the blood, I see.
Its terrible visage fills my mind, vast and empty, but at the same time so terrifyingly full of detail. The triangles and the circles, the threes and the sevens, the mindless numb darkness. Three glowing red eyes in a triangle taunt me from the darkness, terrible eyes that are my beast and foe and nightmare. The sevens and the threes and the sevens and the threes... an endless procession of them, mindless covering over all.
The blood rushes out over my fingers like a fountain, out and out,
warm and sticky. I bend my ear down to the blood as it pours out, and I can
hear the whispers, soft and smooth, promising endless sleep. But they're too
soft! Far, far, far, far too soft! I haul her body up, trying to hear the
whispers, but they're always too soft, much too soft. Every time, they're too
soft. I drag her body across the paths that have been laid out, the eternal
spirals and circles that cover the floor in darkened traces of blood. Too
There is one last thing I must do. And then it's all done. The plan, yes,
the plan. I prop the body up against the wall, and then, slowly, carefully,
lovingly, I cut her chest wide open with the always sharp knife, and drive my
hand deep within, till I can feel my hand is covered in the precious blood.
Then I take it out, and take my hand to the last uncovered wall, directly
opposite to the now slowed wall of blood that runs. I run my hand down the
first sinuous curve. Then I dive my hand in again. Each must be fresh. Each
must be clean. The second curve, smaller yet the same. Dive. The third,
rounded and yet imperfect. Dive. The fourth, backwards curve. Dive, dive,
dive. Then, again, the last. The final. A perfect circle. The word formed, and
it runs red down the walls like the blood always does.
But it is done. And I know what the walls says, what it is.
+Do nothing. I wonder, what do you dream of?
+My little marine.