 |
| Screengrab from The Curse of Frank Black — Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc. |
There is a Room in Frank Black’s head.
We all have rooms in our heads; it’s where we keep the things we don’t really want to think about. We go about our lives without giving much thought to what might be hiding in there. For most of us, it only adds a faint patina to our core being, an extra dimension, nothing more.
Frank, however, is different. Frank’s Room once waited for purpose with a sense of equal parts anticipation and dread, its edges intangible, fading into darkness. Now, on Hallowe’en night of Frank’s fifth year, it finds its first occupant.
Frank’s family had always whispered about him, that he might have inherited his mother’s ways. He’s so quiet, they said. So intense. And perhaps this intensity, this silence, has turned his gifts inward as well, because, while Mr. Crocell has not yet passed in the outside world, here, in the Room, he emerges fully formed.
Frank’s first ghost.
Mr. Crocell sits on a worn-out couch, in a worn-out military uniform, and smokes. Smokes and glowers. All the rage and fear he felt in the outside world, that he had directed towards Frank in his living room that night, has come with him and set up camp here. What light there is, besides the glowing end of his cigarette, is cool and dim and somehow pestilent, with no definite point of entry.
The Door to the Room is ill-fitting in its frame, with a large gap along the bottom allowing for a constant rivulet of grey tobacco smoke to make its way through the cracks and into Frank’s conscious life. Previously unadorned, since Mr. Crocell’s arrival, the Door now holds the numbers 2, and 6, and 8.
Mr. Crocell stews and grumbles between drags on his cigarette. He is biding his time, believing that he is still himself. He’s not sure what brought him here, but he knows who is responsible, and he will need to gather strength to confront him. And so, he will wait.
Two months later, the night before Christmas, he is joined in the Room by Frank’s mother. She fades into being in the aspect of an angel, but her wings are grey, shabby, torn; her eyes are dead and lifeless. Why didn’t you save me? they seem to ask. You knew, you knew.
This accusation hangs in the aether, merging with the tobacco smoke, and together they continue their slow leak into the outer world of Frank’s mind. He becomes further introverted, seeming to understand more than his peers. It does not do him any favours.
Soon enough, the Room gains another occupant — a teenage boy, colder than the other two, and significantly damper — wet, in fact, dripping wet, and gasping. It was only a joke, he wheezes through gulps of the dank air. The continual stream escaping under the Door is gaining momentum.
In the outside world, this amalgam flows through Frank’s mind and alters his path. He might have been anyone, done anything, had an ordinary life with ordinary friends — but his course is now immutable.
Years pass with only these three in the Room, and their low-level influence slowly twists Frank into a hyper-receptive state, taking in and feeling far more than he should have to. By the time he is fourteen, Frank can see the truth in things — including the truth about the now-dead Mr. Crocell, whose presence in the Room now includes the addition of a messy hole in the back of his head. Mr. Crocell has gone from merely unpleasant to sinister, and the current cascading under the Door grows more substantial and frigid.
Frank’s certainty that his purpose is to set things right is unexplainable but unshakeable. He sets himself after progressively worse criminals, soaking in their psyches, and this widens the gap under the Door, creating a feedback loop of sensitivity.
Long years pass, and more occupants arrive, rumpled and discarded, covered in blood, with accusatory glares. The icy Room is now crowded with the shades of Frank’s self-perceived failures. Outside, Frank’s survivor’s guilt is close to consuming him.
Mr. Crocell senses his time is coming soon. The addition of his spectral Room-mates has given him far more strength than he’d had alone. The influence he exerts on Frank is no longer enough to satiate him; he wants physical being, and, though he doesn’t know exactly what he needs to say, the urge to declare it grows unbearable.
What was once a trickle is now a torrent, not just coursing under the Door but surging from the sides and top as well, as if the Door holds back a flood. Frank’s mind is starting to bow under the pressure, and one night, when his anchor, his reason for being, is threatened, he snaps and lets it wash over him — and another apparition takes up residence in the Room, adding his punctured, bloody rage to Mr. Crocell’s strength.
Now, Mr. Crocell thinks. Time for a haunting.
Mr. Crocell waits until Hallowe’en night. He starts small; he wants to prepare Frank to be receptive to what he has to say. He creates a profound sense of dread, manifesting in Frank’s periphery in demonic guise and causing the numbers from the Door to show up everywhere — on the television, mail, radio, and finally in a biblical reference. Frank is starting to see.
Prowling the empty house, Frank is ultimately drawn to the attic. Where Mr. Crocell waits.
You’ve become me, he says. The devil is watching Frank, he proclaims, and if he keeps going the way he is, the devil will take him.
There, Mr. Crocell thinks, I’ve done it. But even as the thoughts run through his non-existent head, his purpose now complete, he disappears in a faint cloud of grey smoke. Not back to the Room, but gone forever.
Frank’s perpetual burden of guilt lifts somewhat, as Mr. Crocell is no longer part of it.
In the Room, his mother’s wings brighten from their earlier dull grey to something close to white, and the venomous tide is now unadulterated, mostly. One by one, the residents of the Room fade — not completely gone, no, but gossamer, more the memory they truly are and less the malevolent spirits Frank’s mind had initially summoned. He will never forget any of them, but now, at least, he can move on.
Heather Murray keeps the Room in her head securely locked, thank you.
We all have rooms in our heads; it’s where we keep the things we don’t really want to think about. We go about our lives without giving much thought to what might be hiding in there. For most of us, it only adds a faint patina to our core being, an extra dimension, nothing more.
Frank, however, is different. Frank’s Room once waited for purpose with a sense of equal parts anticipation and dread, its edges intangible, fading into darkness. Now, on Hallowe’en night of Frank’s fifth year, it finds its first occupant.
Frank’s family had always whispered about him, that he might have inherited his mother’s ways. He’s so quiet, they said. So intense. And perhaps this intensity, this silence, has turned his gifts inward as well, because, while Mr. Crocell has not yet passed in the outside world, here, in the Room, he emerges fully formed.
Frank’s first ghost.
Mr. Crocell sits on a worn-out couch, in a worn-out military uniform, and smokes. Smokes and glowers. All the rage and fear he felt in the outside world, that he had directed towards Frank in his living room that night, has come with him and set up camp here. What light there is, besides the glowing end of his cigarette, is cool and dim and somehow pestilent, with no definite point of entry.
The Door to the Room is ill-fitting in its frame, with a large gap along the bottom allowing for a constant rivulet of grey tobacco smoke to make its way through the cracks and into Frank’s conscious life. Previously unadorned, since Mr. Crocell’s arrival, the Door now holds the numbers 2, and 6, and 8.
Mr. Crocell stews and grumbles between drags on his cigarette. He is biding his time, believing that he is still himself. He’s not sure what brought him here, but he knows who is responsible, and he will need to gather strength to confront him. And so, he will wait.
Two months later, the night before Christmas, he is joined in the Room by Frank’s mother. She fades into being in the aspect of an angel, but her wings are grey, shabby, torn; her eyes are dead and lifeless. Why didn’t you save me? they seem to ask. You knew, you knew.
This accusation hangs in the aether, merging with the tobacco smoke, and together they continue their slow leak into the outer world of Frank’s mind. He becomes further introverted, seeming to understand more than his peers. It does not do him any favours.
Soon enough, the Room gains another occupant — a teenage boy, colder than the other two, and significantly damper — wet, in fact, dripping wet, and gasping. It was only a joke, he wheezes through gulps of the dank air. The continual stream escaping under the Door is gaining momentum.
In the outside world, this amalgam flows through Frank’s mind and alters his path. He might have been anyone, done anything, had an ordinary life with ordinary friends — but his course is now immutable.
Years pass with only these three in the Room, and their low-level influence slowly twists Frank into a hyper-receptive state, taking in and feeling far more than he should have to. By the time he is fourteen, Frank can see the truth in things — including the truth about the now-dead Mr. Crocell, whose presence in the Room now includes the addition of a messy hole in the back of his head. Mr. Crocell has gone from merely unpleasant to sinister, and the current cascading under the Door grows more substantial and frigid.
Frank’s certainty that his purpose is to set things right is unexplainable but unshakeable. He sets himself after progressively worse criminals, soaking in their psyches, and this widens the gap under the Door, creating a feedback loop of sensitivity.
Long years pass, and more occupants arrive, rumpled and discarded, covered in blood, with accusatory glares. The icy Room is now crowded with the shades of Frank’s self-perceived failures. Outside, Frank’s survivor’s guilt is close to consuming him.
Mr. Crocell senses his time is coming soon. The addition of his spectral Room-mates has given him far more strength than he’d had alone. The influence he exerts on Frank is no longer enough to satiate him; he wants physical being, and, though he doesn’t know exactly what he needs to say, the urge to declare it grows unbearable.
What was once a trickle is now a torrent, not just coursing under the Door but surging from the sides and top as well, as if the Door holds back a flood. Frank’s mind is starting to bow under the pressure, and one night, when his anchor, his reason for being, is threatened, he snaps and lets it wash over him — and another apparition takes up residence in the Room, adding his punctured, bloody rage to Mr. Crocell’s strength.
Now, Mr. Crocell thinks. Time for a haunting.
Mr. Crocell waits until Hallowe’en night. He starts small; he wants to prepare Frank to be receptive to what he has to say. He creates a profound sense of dread, manifesting in Frank’s periphery in demonic guise and causing the numbers from the Door to show up everywhere — on the television, mail, radio, and finally in a biblical reference. Frank is starting to see.
Prowling the empty house, Frank is ultimately drawn to the attic. Where Mr. Crocell waits.
You’ve become me, he says. The devil is watching Frank, he proclaims, and if he keeps going the way he is, the devil will take him.
There, Mr. Crocell thinks, I’ve done it. But even as the thoughts run through his non-existent head, his purpose now complete, he disappears in a faint cloud of grey smoke. Not back to the Room, but gone forever.
Frank’s perpetual burden of guilt lifts somewhat, as Mr. Crocell is no longer part of it.
In the Room, his mother’s wings brighten from their earlier dull grey to something close to white, and the venomous tide is now unadulterated, mostly. One by one, the residents of the Room fade — not completely gone, no, but gossamer, more the memory they truly are and less the malevolent spirits Frank’s mind had initially summoned. He will never forget any of them, but now, at least, he can move on.
Heather Murray keeps the Room in her head securely locked, thank you.
Room 101 was my fifth book-published piece, part of Outside In Wants to Believe: 156 New Perspectives on 156 X-FILES Universe Stories by 156 Writers, published by ATB Publishing and available online and in bookstores. As in previous editions, I’ve joined a number of extremely talented writers here — included are school reports, infographics, parking tickets, science experiments, and even a Rube Goldberg machine. And, as always, a percentage of each sale goes to charity. Whether your tastes lean toward Millennium, Harsh Realm, or The Lone Gunmen, this one’s highly recommended!
No comments:
Post a Comment
I seem to get a lot of spam from anonymous messages - for that reason, I moderate comments. If it isn’t spam I approve comments pretty quickly.