From the Dark Side Excerpt: Keith Dugger’s “The Viewing Room”

Our second sneaky peek at From the Dark Side comes to you from author Keith Dugger. Dugger is an avid writer of bizarro and dark fiction, and you can find out more about him at his official website. For now, please enjoy this little clip from his story: “The Viewing Room.”

I’m thinking two more excerpts might be the order of the day, since tomorrow is release day, after all. Muahahahahahaha, stay tuned…

The Viewing Room

Something was coming. And she ran like it was for her life.
Only there did Deirdre have runner’s legs and her thighs were as developed as any well-trained marathoner.

Something was coming and it was fast. She hadn’t seen it, but it sounded viciously ugly. Dark noises didn’t come from cute, fluffy kitties. It was coming, it was loud and it was all she could do to stretch out her strides in the confines of the narrow hallway and run from the shredder sounds chasing her.

Dozens of doors in the hallway were locked. Deirdre pushed against some, those she had time to stop for. They were latch-less, just frames of thick wood held in place by hidden locks. Or held closed by hidden hands groping the hallway just for her.

The clicking and scratching of claws on the hardwood floors behind her grew closer. It was all that Deirdre could do to run even when she didn’t want to, even when she didn’t have to strength to. She left footprints of infected puss from her cracked and bleeding bare feet.

She pushed against door after locked door, leaning her light-weight shoulder against them hoping one would give her sanctuary from the predator that haunted her every nightmare.

“Come on!” Locked. “I can’t do this forever.” The heel of her hand blackened from banging on the unforgiving doors.

A warm wind whipped about her, pushed her thin black hair around the sweat on her face. She paused, dejected and took a slow, deep breath. A whisper. Low and growling. “Deirdre.” She ran to the next door.

“Let me in! Someone.” She yelled as though someone might be somewhere to hear her. Then, “Anyone.” She whimpered the hopeless wish.

“Deirdre?” Quietly on the surface of the wind. An unlikely source. “You can’t hide, lassie.”

“Go ahead. Try me. I’m not locked. I promise.” The closed door taunted her like the rest. She tapped her head against the hallway wall across from the taunting door and giggled. “A talking door. What’s next?” She waited for an answer, pushed her wet hair from her face and stared the door down. If it could, it stared back at her in a losing game of who blinks first.

She did. The dry wind from nowhere gallivanted about the place, and something quietly clawed and scratched and growled all around her. Unseen.

It knew her name. It always did.

A sign hung above the door. “The Viewing Room: A Court of Publicity for the Existentialist”. A handwritten note torn from a yellowed note pad hung by a single strip of clear tape on the door. It read: “Guests Only”. Deidre looked down the length of the hall. Each door had its own sign. She hadn’t noticed before.