Trapped

You wake up Shaking, quivering- in a cold, freezing sweat You had a horrible nightmare- one filled with disgusting imagery and an uncontrollable wave of terror that had consumed you. The images and fear are pumped away by the addrenalin racing through your veins- the remnants of a distorted face are the last of those awful images to linger in your mind before being swept benieth a rug of things "not to remember". ....The same rug where grocery lists and other or important information or responsibilities often find themselves. Warmth returns to your face, and your heartbeat slows.... what was your dream about? [[Nevermind...]]

Your back is pressed against a wall that seems eager to chill your body. [[Do a systems check]]

Looking up, you appear to be in some sort of cell- though you imagine most "cells" being a bit less spacious than this one. A slightly vaulted ceiling stands above you, composed of musty old stone. The crevices of the ceiling are littered with cobwebs that dangle lifelessly from corner to corner.The only notable feature in the ceiling is a small hole- or rather an unusual [[crack]] in the missed-match and mishapen blocks of cobblestone. Standing 10 feet tall and an equal length in width, you are boxed in by four identical walls- patched together by layers of decaying plaster that flake along every block of stone and onto the floor. The floor of your cell bares little difference in aesthetic or design from the walls aside from a [[thick antique rug]] spread obviously off-center upon it. Standing by the left wall- //left//? West -you decide to name it- assuming that the wall your back is pressed against is 'south'. Standing against the //west// wall is a [[withering nightstand]], with two legs grounded into the rug while the other two rest weakly between the cool, dusty junction of floor and wall. The room is vaguely lit by the dull flame of lantern light nested on the west and east walls. ... These are the only items that accompany you in your cell... all execept fro the steel sentinal of a [[door]] that is firmly bolted to the north wall. It seems to be the only way out.

Gropping at various areas of our body- wristst to arms, ribs to thighs- you feel no particular soreness or bruising. Thankfully you are relatively unscathed Your pulse seems to have relaxed a bit since your rude awakening, resetting your body back into a state of groggy fatigue. Maybe you'll sit here for a moment.... [[Where am I?]]

You look up at the crack in the ceiling- there is an blood orange light falling from the hole and dripping onto the cobblestone before you. The rest of the room is is vaguely lit by the dull flame of lantern light nested on the west and east walls. It must be about dusk outside. The urge to leave this place grows a bit stronger. //Why am I here?// [[Where am I?]]

Probably about 2 1/2 inches in thickness the old antique rug lays exhuasted on the cobblestone floor. You can't see much of its detail from where you're sitting, but you can tell that the edges of the rug are slightly raised. [[Where am I?]]

The rickety withering nightstand looks more like a small writting desk with two legs wedged into the thick fabric of carpet beneith. The feint light of a candle illuminates the writing desk, but you can't see much else from here. [[Where am I?]]

The door that leads out of your cell has some unusual markings on it.... but you can't see much from here. //''Thock''// ''You hear a knocking sound from the wall behind you.'' [[Jump]]

Startled by the knocking a swift pump of addrenalin races through you once again. Jumping to your feet you decide to [[take a closer look at things]] ....

You decide to... //[[Examine the antique rug]]// //[[Examine the small writting desk]]//

You pace over to the rug. Woven in an 18th century floral pattern throughout the square of tired crimson are quiet and dull shades of exhausted gold whose shine and majesty have been long since buried beneath layers of fuzzy grey lint and dust. There is something odd about the rug though- its edges are raised as if the carpet has been shifted or moved in recent times. //[[Examine the small writting desk]]//

You look over at the small writting desk. The legs of the desk are cracked and one, resting on the carpet, is misshapen, much like its crumbling cobble-stone brothers. Its surfaces and edges wear cracks, crevices, and years of neglect like scars that threaten to splinter anyone who were to brush across against the grain. Sitting upon the table’s worn surface is another source of light, apart from the [[cracked ceiling]] and the soft glow of the lanterns on the walls; a lit and partially melted candle salvating thick waxy blobs onto the dull rusty plate of its base. Next to the base of the candle is a [[leather-bound parchment diary]] resting harmlessly on the surface of the table. Dust and flaked plaster have settled into the crevices of the dark blue leather cover, allowing it to look a bit more grey in this light. //[[Examine the antique rug]]//

You look to the door. Breaking the flow of the cobblestone in the north wall is a metallic goliath with what appears to be a four digit combination lock above a presumabley locked [[handle]]. Marking the circumference of the handle are a collection of scratches that have scraped away much of the black paint on the door. Similar markings surround the edges of the door- as if some sort of fatigued beast has tried to pry the vault door open. Sound occasionally leaks past the door into the room; echoes of far-away conversations, and stones being tossed down the hall. //''People?''// //''Maybe someone can help?''// [["Hello!?" You call out.]]

Looking back up to the ceiling the blood-orange light as softened to a far more dark and mute shade..... You assume that the sun has set. //[[Examine the small writting desk]]// //[[Examine the antique rug]]//

Dust and flaked plaster have settled into the crevices of the dark blue leather cover, allowing it to look a bit more grey in this light. You pick up the diary and begin to flip through the pages. Unlike the stories of neglect carved into the writting desk, the pages of the diary are blank and featurless apart from their rough texture. As you hold the diary vertically in an attempt to examine it further, a [[rusty old key]] topples onto the wooden desk top, chiming and ringing once or twice before laying still against the grain of the desk.

You jiggle the handle. Yup. Locked. You continue to examine [[the door]].

''"Hello!?"'' You call out past the steel door, hoping that your voice can be heard. No response. [["Is anyone out there!? Please!"]]

"''Is anyone out there!? Please!''" You cry. Your calls fall on deaf ears. Maybe no ears at all.... the sounds of distant voices and stone throwing seem to have faded. Did you imagine it? No, you're sure you hear [[voices]].

//"Please"// ...... you hear a whisper from behind you and jerk around. The space in the room remains vacant aside from the desk, the rug, and the lanters, and yourself. Only misshapen cobblestone and decaying plaster of the south wall [[stare]] back at you.

The room is silent but the sound of your heartbeat pounding away in your ears is deafening. You turn back to the door. "[[LET ME OUT!!]]"

"//LET ME OUT//" You scream at the door - - ||||||||||||''THOCK''||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||''//OUT//''|||| .... .........//You flip around- back to the door// ||||||||||||||''THOCK''||||||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||||||''//OUT//''||||||||||||||||||||| .......... ... .... ,... ....... |||||||||||||||||''THOCK''||||||||||||||||||| Pounding echoes throughout the stone room... ........Dust raises in a feint plume above the [[rug]].

Picking up and examining the key it apppears quite larg in size an fits well in your hand. Caked in rust and wrapped in dents and slight bends, you wonder if the key is even functional. You look to [[the door]] and reason that this key will be useless against the four-digit combination lock, setting it back down on the desk.

The thin layer of dust that had been knocked from the rug was falling slowly and dramatically through the air, beginning to drift and settle within the the fabrics of the carpet once again. You stand, shaken, and frozen against the door. The knocking has stopped, but your heartbeat is still pumping loudly in your ears. You try to regain control of your breathing, and slowly begin to reclaim your [[focus]].

''Focus.'' You continue to stare at the [[ornament rug]]. //What the hell// is going on?

The floral patterns of gold have regained a small bit of their shine back after having some of the dust knocked from their fibers. The shades of crimson beneith the patterns have also beeen renewed somewhat and now look are more like muddled blood pools woven together by bridges of shabby faded gold. The perimeter of the rug is still slightly raised from the ground, and you suspect that if the writting desk's legs weren't holding the fabric down, the rug may have shifted a bit. It was a powerful knock from beneith the floor.... something must lie beneith this room.... but what? You know you heard a voice- this time it was loud and clear, unlike the muted whispers that could be heard from beyond the door; whispers of which have been rendered silent, you note. You believe that the voice came from beneith the rug. ''Move the desk and lift the rug?'' [[I'd really rather not...]] [[What choice do I have?]]

You continue to stand with shaking knees staring at the off-center blanket of red and gold.... you cannot shake the feeling that it staring back. [[What choice do I have?]]

With a deep breath, an even deeper sigh, and a large gulp to swallow your courage, you approach the rug [[slowly]]...

One foot in front of the other you inch toward the rug, deciding whether or not you should [[pull the rug aside]] or [[move the desk first]].

Gripping the ancient fabric by its edges, you flip the rug over its center, revealing its musky and molding underside. Beneith the rug you find what appears to be a partially exposed.... [[door?]]

You look toward the desk. Still somewhat shaky from earlier, you approach the corners of the old writting desk, and fear that any energy you place upon the rickety table may cause its wobbly cracked legs to snap and collapse. You press on with your plan anyway- gently walking the table away from thick fibers of the rug. The table moans and creeks as you move it, but it does not fold; the candle dribbles hot wax onto its rusty metallic bib as you shift the table around, and the diary slides a couple of inches from where you'd originally found it. You are relieved from the stress of the situation for a brief moment while you admire the manfacturer of this four-legged piece of work. The small writting desk has been successfully shifted from its posssition on the rug. [[Flip the rug]]

You kneel down and lightly brush the crevices of the door with your fingertips. Your hands absorb the dust caked in the crevice between a plate of cement and the cobblestone floor you stand on. With a depressed sigh, you roll your fingertips over the hings of the plate, and sadly confirm that there is a [[trap door]] of sorts laying before you.

If you want to pull the rug away from the door, you'll have to [[move the desk first]].

You close your buring eyes for a brief moment. Filling your lungs with anticipation before releasing with a single, audible exhaust... You open your eyes, staring at the rug. Grappling onto the edges of the ancient fabric, you pull it aside with all of your might- //Oh my god it is so [[heavy]]// ....

Heaving, you shift your body weight in the direction you wish to place the rug, though "placing" is a gentle way of describing the magnificent, weighted //flop// of old rug to the other side of the room. With rug peeled away, a broad, damp square of where the rug once lay circles the very thing that rips the courage from your chest. .... A cement plate sits in the middle of the damp square. Old, grimy dust has collected in its crevices, heavily coating impressive brass hinges that bolt the plate to the cobblestone floor. On the opposite side of the pair of hinges is an equally impressive brass lock that seems to have chained the plate down. Involuntarily, you being to [[shake]]...

...... ........... [[...]] ..... ................ ...... [[....]]

........ [[..]] .......... ..... //cold// [[....]] ............ .... [[.....]]

[[..]] ............. ...... [[.....]] ...... //shaking// ...... [[...]]

[[...]] .......... [[....]] //quickened breathing// [[.......]] ... [[..]] ..........

................ .... .... [[Quite Screwing around]].....

.... [[....]] ..........//deep, deep breaths// ........ [[.....]] ....... .... ......... [[...]]

Yeah Quite wasting time.... Just .... I can do this..... You tell yourself. You look at the rusted key on the desk..... and [[reach for the key]].

As your fingertips reach the handle of the rusted key you feel a sense of forbodding coming the [[diary]].

Continue [[to reach for the key]] Take [[a quick look at the diary]]

You grab the key and look back at the door. [[Open the padlock]] Take [[a quick look at the diary]]

You pick up the diary and feel its weight in your hands. You flip through the first few pages and find nothing. ... and then you flip to the [[fifth]] page...

Stepping down to your knees you take the padlock into your hands. Slipping the bent and rusty key into the keyhole, you fear that the key may not even work on the padlock.... though you wouldn't be terribley disappointed to end your endeavours to face the unknown entity here. ....Maybe starving to death here wouldn't be so bad....? [[Shut up and keep moving]]

''Hello'' ....//gulp// You flip to the next [[page]]...

''Is anyone there?'' ............. The words are written in a thick red ink. ... The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You find yourself caught in a sort of terrifying and curious trance.... You turn [[the page]] once again.

PLEASE .......... ...//shaking, you set the diary down and [[reach for the key]]//......

With trembling hands, you twist the key until you hear a satisfying "click" of the padlock opening. .... .......... ...Except....not only did the padlock open, but the key has snapped inside of the hole, permanantly leaving you with a useless metallic shank. Rolling your eyes, you set the rusty handle and the padlock aside. With shaking hands you begin to remove the chains from the door... slowly sliding the metal across the cobblestone floor with blood curdling clings and clanks echoing throughout your cell. Once you've removed the chains all that's left to do is either [[open the trap door]] or [[quiver]] and listen to the panicked rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

The chains of the padlock had been intertwined between the handle of the door and a half-ring of metal bolted to the cobblstone floor. Now with the handle free, you are able to wrap your weakened grip strength around the freezing metallic handle, and [[pull it open with all of your might]]....

.............. You squeeze your eyes shut as a similar sense of forboding prickles its way across your skin. .......... ....[[open the trap door]]....

The cement door crashes against the cobblestone as you jump back- somewhat afraid that the 'beast beyond the door' may try to snatch you immediatley. But, when you look up there are no wicked beasts snarling or salvating as they stare down at your quivering body. No... instead, there is only you and a sinister hole in the floor of your cell. You have a difficult time deciding which of the two is more horrifying. You begin to crawl up to the open door in order to peer down into its depths. Breathing slowly Shaken and reluctant You stretch your head over the hole and look down [[inside]].

Dark. Very Dark.... With the dim orange glow of the cell, all you can see is a ''ladder'' leading down into the hole, however, its rungs quickly disapear from sight as they are swallowed by darkeness. With no knowledge of where the ladder could lead, or how deep the hole is, you can ''toss'' the rusty key handle down- surely you will be able to hear it collide with the ground below... wherever that is. Of course there is also the option to [[descende blindly]] down the hole.

You sigh. Gripping the handles of the ladder Why are you doing this? You take descend about five rungs about maybe five or six more before reaching the bottom of the ladder. It is so dark.... so so //so// [[dark]].

//cold// //hot [[breath]]//

You feel hot breath on the back of your neck and supress the urge to scream. You feel the breath before your brain registers the //sounds// that accompany these breaths. Breathing..... like a dying animal with asthma. Strained breathing.... short and shallow... oxygen-deprived breaths. Not gasping... More like.... panting... beneith the fabric of a thick pillow. Breaths that send wafts of tangible fear that rearrange your hair. Its so dark. You are not alone. Whatever is here..... You scream- - --- you just want to [[Wake up]] from this //Nightmare//.