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Planetoid
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2011
Prologue
There had been a call, on a rainy April afternoon, about three days ago. "I can help you to find your son," a voice, neither distinctively male nor female, had sung without any greeting or explanation. In the silence that had followed pleas, and insults and sobbing a heartbeat had been hearable before the stranger had continued.
"Come! Come to me and I tell you where you find your son." Then a click. The busy signal had sounded so much like the weeping of a mourning widow, doleful and never-ending. Most people , husbands and fathers for an instance, would have taken it for a tasteless joke or an amateurish attempted blackmail. But mothers sometimes view thinks from a different angle, don't they?
The tattered, unstamped letter that arrived the very next morning fueled the hope even more.
'Come' was scribbled on a dirty, old piece of paper, in a ponderously convoluted handwriting.
A handwriting that was strangely enticing, much like the proverbial song of the sirens. A simple word, four entwined letters that made the skin tickle as if it were covered with thousand busy beetles. A simple word, framed by countless inkstains and splotches, that made hair stand on end, made nipples feel as if they were about to burst, that made the nether regions tingle and eventually made you obey in more than one way.
Who had ever heard of such a thing? But still it had happened. One simple word had led to a moment of bliss and one single moment of bliss had provided an answer.
A raddled envelope, ripped apart in the moment of climaxing pleasure, had born another piece of paper, small and yellowed.
The add had lead to an old, but luxurious hotel half across the country. To a hotel with a vast park bordering to the very forest that had swallowed up Aaron, almost two weeks ago.
The hotel was a place out of a fairy tale. Despite its age and the fact that it was build in dark, neo-gothic style it was not creepy at all. Thousands of lampions and lights illuminated the corridors and lobbies, the salons and stairways and even the park, lying behind the mansion in the lush greens of April. Even the swimming pools and ponds were filled with little, floating lights from the moment the sun disappeared behind the tree crowns.
And there were people, a lot of people. All joyful and friendly, much unlike people usually tended to be - even when on vacation. They danced and laughed and savored the unnumbered treasures, big and small, that were offered by the hotel and its devoted staff.
But who can one enjoy such profanities when sorely missing a beloved person?
Who can enjoy the company of many when the one desired person is missing?
And who can find comfort in the light when darkness itself was trying to impregnate a person's heart?
There had been a call, on a rainy April afternoon, about three days ago. "I can help you to find your son," a voice, neither distinctively male nor female, had sung without any greeting or explanation. In the silence that had followed pleas, and insults and sobbing a heartbeat had been hearable before the stranger had continued.
"Come! Come to me and I tell you where you find your son." Then a click. The busy signal had sounded so much like the weeping of a mourning widow, doleful and never-ending. Most people , husbands and fathers for an instance, would have taken it for a tasteless joke or an amateurish attempted blackmail. But mothers sometimes view thinks from a different angle, don't they?
The tattered, unstamped letter that arrived the very next morning fueled the hope even more.
'Come' was scribbled on a dirty, old piece of paper, in a ponderously convoluted handwriting.
A handwriting that was strangely enticing, much like the proverbial song of the sirens. A simple word, four entwined letters that made the skin tickle as if it were covered with thousand busy beetles. A simple word, framed by countless inkstains and splotches, that made hair stand on end, made nipples feel as if they were about to burst, that made the nether regions tingle and eventually made you obey in more than one way.
Who had ever heard of such a thing? But still it had happened. One simple word had led to a moment of bliss and one single moment of bliss had provided an answer.
A raddled envelope, ripped apart in the moment of climaxing pleasure, had born another piece of paper, small and yellowed.
The add had lead to an old, but luxurious hotel half across the country. To a hotel with a vast park bordering to the very forest that had swallowed up Aaron, almost two weeks ago.
The hotel was a place out of a fairy tale. Despite its age and the fact that it was build in dark, neo-gothic style it was not creepy at all. Thousands of lampions and lights illuminated the corridors and lobbies, the salons and stairways and even the park, lying behind the mansion in the lush greens of April. Even the swimming pools and ponds were filled with little, floating lights from the moment the sun disappeared behind the tree crowns.
And there were people, a lot of people. All joyful and friendly, much unlike people usually tended to be - even when on vacation. They danced and laughed and savored the unnumbered treasures, big and small, that were offered by the hotel and its devoted staff.
But who can one enjoy such profanities when sorely missing a beloved person?
Who can enjoy the company of many when the one desired person is missing?
And who can find comfort in the light when darkness itself was trying to impregnate a person's heart?