Glove - Kane Morrison

Glove










By KANE MORRISON














CHAPTER 1



“It’s 2 AM, all fear is gone…”


The fridge door opened. The bulb inside wavered before springing to full intensity. A hand reached into the upper rack and removed a bottle. He unscrewed the cap and downed the cool green liquid, quenching a thirst.
It was humid. His skin still felt clammy, especially around his neck. The cold plastic housing of the Mountain Dew felt good in his hand. He swished down more of the drink and screwed the lid back on the bottle. He carefully placed it back in the refrigerator.
The room went dark after the door closed. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust as he walked from the tiny kitchen. He knew where everything was at any rate, and he could have managed to get to his bed with his eyes closed if need be.
Godzilla had finished eating things. The creature was deceased, or was it? And had that been a movie, or was it the news?
He trudged into the further darkness of the hall. Sleepless were his nights of late. The heat seemed to pulsate from the eggshell walls. He toed into his bedroom. It was small, even for a bachelor pad. Even more surprisingly, it was uncluttered.
He rolled back a few sheets until he felt comfortable with a thin layer; a ply suitable for the aim of gaining sleep amid the stagnated heat.
He didn’t know why he was having such a hard time sleeping at night. He could easily slip off during the day, but at night it was difficult. The things he thought about while trying to nod-off seemed to be the problem.
The white curtains that hung from the rod looked like clean, corrugated, aluminium siding. There was no breeze, not even an odd gust to billow the sheer fabric. No breeze created unease.
His naked frame clung to the sheet as he tried to stay still within his arid room. He wanted to thrash, readjust himself, but knew if he gave in, would be a catalyst for his inability to fall from wakefulness.
He tried not to sweat, but could feel the swamp of beads forming in the arch of his back. He was soaked but kept that condition away and kept himself thinking that it was just an illusion. It was merely this grand plan to try and keep him for falling asleep.
His tongue lashed out and swished away some perspiration from his upper lip. It was salty. While his tongue meandered back into his mouth he passed by his top row of teeth. He couldn’t help but check on their standing and began pushing each section of his teeth, looking for loose ones.
He could not help it. He had had that dream where his teeth were all very loose, and some had begun to fall right out of his gums. He dreamt of trying to shove them back into their sockets, but the holes had enlarged and become unreceptive abodes for housing teeth. Things were good, and he could only locate a few teeth that he could even twitch about, but they were not close to falling out.
The mind game seemed to have an effect. In those few moments of distraction he had dozed off. There was still no breeze, no movement of air. There was still the unforgivable warmth, the humidity, and the dew that now caked his flesh. These conditions no longer mattered; they no longer begged his attention from actual, true, sleep.
Sound travels with exceptional clarity from great distances during these types of sultry nights. He was not a rich man, one that could afford air conditioning. His windows were his vents. The area he lived in was on a par with him. It was usually quiet, neat, and one could even describe it as serene.
A few cats became embroiled in a skirmish, where, what seemed, was right outside his bedroom window. The screen to the window rattled, causing a cascade of growls, hisses, and aluminium chattering to cascade throughout the room. He awoke to the sound of a tom spitting at his foe.
He half-heartedly sat up on the edge of his damp bed and trudged over to the open window. He could not see any fur, or any motion to indicate where this feline melee was taking place. He scolded the general area with his eyes, even gave an evil glare to the elm in front of his apartment.
Whatever had happened, the cats had suddenly dissipated from their territorial activities. A sticky calm replaced them. He could even smell the scent of sweat coming from the varying vegetation.
More asleep than awake he hobbled back toward his dank bedding. He lowered himself slowly into his awaiting bed frame, leaving his foot behind on the floor.
He was now suddenly awake. He was very awake, very conscious. He swiftly moved his foot from the carpet and yanked it up to the bed. He felt awkwardly certain, that while completing this manoeuvre that someone, or something, had tried to grab his ankle from under the bed.
It was only a momentary sensation, one that quickly departed after considering how childish the entire situation he had imagined really was. Maybe the film had frightened him more than he could admit. He tried to quench his senses, make them relax, get some shut-eye.
He suddenly jumped from his bed, careful not to let his feet get near the bottom of the bed, and jaunted to the washroom. He twisted the cold water tap and grabbed a face cloth from the pile that was in front of an over abundance of varying brands of underarm deodorant. He patted the moistened cloth about his head and neck.
He looked into the mirror, stared into his tired eyes. He briefly recalled the last time someone had gazed into his eyes this way.
He felt refurbished, relieved, and cooler, and was ready, yet again, to try and sleep.
He dropped back onto his pillow, lost in thought, had even forgotten about that thing that dwelled under his bed. He had seen her at the bar and managed to be with her for one short dance. Her deep brown eyes had burned themselves into his memories. He could recite every detail; how he molested her with his eyes, undressed her. She smiled coyly, and seemed to know what he was doing. He looked into her throbbing and pulsating thighs as they danced to some old Steppenwolf ditty.
“Rock me baby, rock me baby, all night long…”
He delivered himself from his memories back to the present. Although that dance he had had was where he often wanted to be. He even noticed that he had become some what aroused by the whole escapade.
He had replaced this pleasant dream with a building feeling of sickly pain in his stomach and head. He really needed to get some sleep. He rolled down his eyelids and concentrated on achieving his goal. No more distractions. No more clatters and whines from animals. Relax. Don’t fidget.
Outside his window the night picked up its pace. The stir from this rare breeze softly blanketed his room. The movement of air swished the sheers, tossed about the portraits that he had tacked into the wallpaper.
His tongue unleashed itself and moistened his lips. His hand mechanically placed his hair back to a more comfortable position. His toes briefly jetted against the damp sheets. Minor nuisances were keeping sleep at bay.
He, once again, had this strange notion to open his eyes, be awake once more. A presence seemed to be focusing on his body. It was an urge, a belief he was being looked at, analyzed.
He thought about giving in to this tenet. He thought he was a young lad again, plagued by the monsters that stormed about in the dark of every room he had ever been in.
Would it be harmful?
He opened his eyes and looked directly into his closet. That’s where they used to live. His pupils dilated fast in the night’s darkness. He remained still, sight glued on the closet.
Between the hangers, from the pants and shirts, tiny faces and forms stared back at him. The shadows had taken on characteristics that were a little too finely developed. These eyes that stared back at him were puffed in anger and madness. His fingers gently moved the bedding over his unprotected skin.
Were his demons from childhood back for a visit? It had been years. Was it merely another semi-conscious dream?
The morning’s first breath created new shadows in his wardrobe. He sighed as the features changed, and the demons went away. He rolled onto his side, thankful that the sun was starting to rise, but agitated that he was unable to get any sleep.
He glanced over to the misty light blue lines of the digital alarm clock on his bedside table. It was just 2:44. Leaping over fences, the sheep should have already been spent. He quickly dashed the realization that he had thought the sun was rising. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps it had been distant headlights, or the moon coming out from behind a cloud.
He closed his eyes once more. Time faded swiftly as he looked at the tiny sparks and crevices of his inner eyelid. Relief steamed from his metabolic system. He fell into a well-earned deep sleep.
It was not long before he was awake again. A mechanical yet man induced noise had now grabbed his attention.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As quickly as it stemmed itself, it would start all over again. The sound seemed to be getting closer and closer. It began from down the street, then the lamppost, the tree, outside his window… It now seemed to be right inside his room.
His eyes sprang open.
This time there were no child-like tricks over taking his imagination.
This time there was a definite vision, one that could be reconciled easily.
There was no explaining this away as a young boy’s sleepy tale, no shadows playing tricks with his mind. He saw the source of the strange rattling, and it was right in the middle of his bedroom.
A bald man, with mirror shades, sat at this cranking device. His well-muscled arms struggled with the iron wheel that he moved about with this awkward looking, thick handled crank. He wore dirty green work pants; a brand new pair of Puma runners and a white sand and sweat stained wife-beater. Balls of perspiration rolled down his forehead toward his thick brown eyebrows, leaving tracks in what seemed like a thin layer of dust. Fine white hairs caked his exposed skin and seemed to capture light and sparkle. The light from the street lamp flowed through the sheers and revealed his deep brown tan.
He did not fully understand what he was being audience to; he did not know how to react, if he should react. He knew he was not at all comfortable. He felt he could be harmed, although there was no violence to speak of, just this inexplicable invasion of privacy.
If he closed his eyes, really tight, and opened them again, would this strange tableau still exist? Would he and his crude machine go away?
No, they would not.
How did he get into the room with that machine anyway?
Maybe he had been in the closet all along?
Maybe he had been the one who was under the bed?
He searched about for some sort of weapon. He had to be ready to defend himself from this obvious flake. He started to feel threatened by this guy’s presence, and had full right to.
What in hell did he want?
He couldn’t come up with a single article that could supply ample defence. He watched the continuing monotonous action of this Herculean being in the centre of his bedroom. He did have an alternative to his present action, which was doing absolutely nothing but skulking into his bedding.
Instead of lying there, easy prey for what would ever transpire, why not try to get the hell out of there. He eyed his bedroom door and glanced back to the grimacing bald man. He sprang out of his bed and darted toward the door.
His tensed hand grabbed onto the knob and twisted it swiftly. His heart stopped in shock as he found himself face to face with this unworldly entity. He stumbled backward and flopped back onto his bed.
The big bald guy kept churning his mechanism, as if nothing was happening he should be concerned with.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
He now knew he was dreaming, had to be. This was surreal, out of the ordinary, inexplicable. He tried to make himself become awake. He tried to jolt his nerves to leave this unconscious state.
The thing he met at his doorway now slowly came into his room.
It could be a man. Maybe someone was playing a joke on him?
Mark? Larry? Mike?
This thing continued into his room, and came to stand right beside his bed. It was silent and ominous.
All of its features seemed white. It had a white hood, barely creased. It had what appeared to be a white baggy t-shirt, over an oddly shaped torso. It seemed to be wearing white surgeon’s pants as well. It strangely had a pair of alligator skin boots, which were also shiny and white. This white mist seemed to ooze from its clothing.
The only part of this entity that was not white was its face. It was a pale green featureless face, almost like that you would find on a cheap mannequin. The height of this thing was also incredible, well over seven feet tall.
It made no noise, not even a murmur. It seemed content to stand there, hovering over me. It was violent, wasn’t docile, just standing there being ominous.
‘What the fuck do you guys want from me?’ He shifted his eyes back and forth between these two decidedly different beings.
That bald man continued with his aimless chore, oblivious to me; blind anything going on around him. The white-cloaked figure said nothing, not like it could, and did nothing, like it had since coming into his bedroom.
Suddenly the tall green-faced thing reached out and grabbed the man by his wrist. He tried to break free but there was no give to the strength of this thing. The grip the entity had was tight but not painful. It was in control, and could not be budged.
The thing easily yanked the man from his bed to make him stand on his feet. It was not a violent aggression, more of a command, a request. He motioned for the man to go toward the door.
The man knew this was a dream, but it was like none he had ever had. Was it due to the heat wave? Lack of sleep? Godzilla? Mountain Dew? The girl he had danced with that night? She had powers…
The entity guided the unsteady, overwhelmed man to the doorway.
The bald man kept up his pace.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As they went through the doorway, into the pitch black of the hall, the man looked back into his room, and to check on the white thing. He could see a gentle smile form on the bald guy’s face as he continued grinding that machine. The cloaked figure was still behind him, and with those arms of his would easily grab him again if he broke for it. His sunglasses glowed in fascination as he left his view.
In the dark of the hall, as he gingerly toed his way to where this beast wanted him to go, there was a sudden eruption of bright light. The explosion of light caused the man to close his eyes and raise his arms. His toes dug into the parquet flooring.
The flash seemed to halt and quickly as it came upon him. He tried to peek through his fingers to see what had happened.
He tensed up completely; knees locked, and heart pumping.
He now found himself on a narrow ledge of this immense building. It was so dark, and so high, that he could not see the ground below. Somehow he now wished he had managed to stay in his room, even if it was with those strange people. At least he wasn’t precariously standing on this very high ledge.
That white-cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.
The “urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech,” could no longer be heard.
The bricks on the wall behind him were ice cold. It was replenishing for a second, considering the heat of late, but that attribute soon fell off. There was also a slight wind, one that caused him ill ease, considering his balance would be challenged if it got much worse.
Minutes seemed to pass, and nothing was changing. He just stood there, gripping the concrete edging with his feet, digging his fingertips into the cold bricks, and not seeing anything around him.
In the distance, at about his altitude, he can spy movement. Was it a plane? A bird? There was no sound to associate with this object, just the breeze.
The wind built a little in energy as the object got closer. He couldn’t make it out. Then he realized there were two objects, paired together in flight. The closer they got the more the wind kicked.
Now it was a constant wind, one that made him dig into the ledge and wall with even more desperation. It was hard to look, with the wind partially blinding him, making it hard to open his eyes for any great time.
It couldn’t be right, what he was seeing. It seemed to be the theme of late for him.
Two giant grey gloves now hovered in front of him, slightly below his location on the ledge. They were massive. He could easily fit into any of the fingers. As the gloves can to a steady halt, the winds immediately died down.
Now what?
All his body hairs stood erect in the cold of the darkness. He clutched tightly into the ledge and wall, using all his digits like never before. His heart, and a good group of the other major organs, beat feverishly against the unknown circumstances.
Then he felt movement, and it was not anything one could consider a positive turn. Either the wall behind him started to slowly edge out, or the ledge was beginning to disappear into the wall.
Why the hell is it moving? What have I done?
He had no real time to question any of the events that had now taken over his life, ruled his existence. There was no time to question reality, just time enough to try and survive each situation as it came to him.
The soles of his feet dragged across the cement as the wall sucked the ledge slowly into itself. He was trying to gain traction, a foothold, even if the ledge vanished, he didn’t have much of a choice.
He looked below him, and saw nothing but the openings of the gloves. That was his last resort, and not really one to look forward to. The wall quickly receded and he could not hold on to anything.
He fell without much fight.
He landed in the right hand of the gloves, finding himself snugly lodged in the thumb.
The shock and tension from the fall, let alone all the other strange events, caused the man to go unconscious.
The gloves didn’t move, just hovered there in the darkness.


“There are things that are known and things that are unknown, and in between are doors.”