Horror Fan Fiction ❯ The Warehouse ❯ The Warehouse ( Chapter 1 )

The Warehouse

 

Filho's Cucina was hot, loud, and violently Italian. Oliver hated it, which he demonstrated by tagging a package with unnecessary fervor.

He grabbed his last delivery of the day. Curtly waving to his manager, Mr. Caracci; a quiet man who resembled a dried apricot, he said a quick good-bye and nearly ran to his car, a 72' Chevelle. The needle was low: as always, he needed gas. The delivery package was thrown onto the passenger seat, and the engine roared to life as he turned the key.

 

The note on the delivery box clearly stated that this was the right address, but it wasn't a home, it was an enormous, dark building; what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. Oliver sighed. This was 46 Willow Street. Did they misprint the address? Maybe someone actually did live in the building…or maybe someone was refurbishing it…either way, he wasn't going back to the restaurant right away after all that. He had driven practically across the city, for God's sake. He was closer to his apartment then the Cucina.

            ; Oliver snatched the delivery box from the seat and strode up the few stairs to the steel double-doors, peering in through an adjacent antique peephole. The only light was sunlight shafting down from four gigantic windows on the far wall. He shrugged and tried one of the doors. It was unlocked, but stuck fast. He pulled back all of his weight, and was rewarded with the scream of rust on concrete as the door flew open. Victorious, he took a cautionary glance around, and slipped inside, delivery box forgotten on the stoop.

            ; His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim interior of the warehouse, but the dust and dank were almost overpowering. He breathed through his mouth as he explored. The warehouse was mostly empty, except for a few large wooden and steel crates against the back wall, and a mass of huge, dusty tarps in the far corner. He strolled through the desolate room, his sneakers dully thudding against the cracked concrete floor.

And there it was.

Hiding behind the nearest crate was a glorious grand piano. It was enormous, and clearly ancient, its worn ivory keys yellow with age. It was coated with thick, greasy dust. He knew he should get the hell out of here and back to work, but instead he slid onto the filthy leather seat. His feet found the brass pedals, his fingers tentatively caressed the keys, taking with them years' worth of grime. And he played.

          &n bsp; At first, afraid to break the oppressive silence in the building, he barely pressed on the keys, but soon the music became faster and louder until the booming of the bass keys was aggressive and frightening. He could hear an orchestra in his head. The warehouse disappeared.

            ; Suddenly, a loud bang erupted from the far corner near the pile of tarps. Oliver's fingers froze, and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata died in an instant. There was another crash, an echo, and then silence. Terrified, Oliver looked around with wide eyes. Something was moving under the tarp.

He slipped quietly off the piano bench and bolted for the door.

Oliver jammed the keys in the ignition of the Chevelle, panting with fear. Aware he was beginning to panic, he took a deep breath and exhaled, harmonizing with the gruff purr of the engine. He was twenty-three years old. Not four. It was probably just an animal. But what made that heavy bang? It sounded like…wood, or something heavy. He shivered and drove away faster then necessary.

            ;Mr. Caracci; normally easygoing, wasn't pleased to see Oliver pull in two hours after he had left with the delivery. Oliver, the old man lectured, was lucky he still had a job. He'd just have to make up the time next week.

 

He was pulling out when his cell phone rang. He eyed the screen warily. It was his sister.

“Magnolia! I haven't heard from you in a while!” He crowed into his stupidly tiny receiver. He hated cell phones.

“I know!” She returned, her voice high and excited. “I'm glad I caught you out of work. Listen, I'm going to be in the city for a few days this month, we should have lunch and catch up.”

“Sure, sounds fine. What day?”

“How's the 26th?” She asked.

“Free and clear.”

“Lovely. Shall we go to Filho's Cucina?” she taunted.

“Absolutely not. How about the seafood place on Elm, Surf or something.”

“I'll be there.”

“Okay Maggie, I'm driving, so I'm going to let you go.”

“See you later, otouto-chan.” She teased; the name, a Japanese endearment their mother taught them when they were children.

“See you, onee-chan.” He returned, and snapped his phone shut. He smiled to himself as he sailed along the main road, the Chevelle rumbling as it cleared a pothole.

His good mood stayed with him as he strolled into the pub to his second job of the day.

“Oh, Oliver, thank goodness you're here, we're totally packed!” Dita beamed at him from behind the bar; looking poignant in her work uniform. Her hair was coiled in a messy bun, and wispy bangs only made her brown eyes look larger.

“I'm here `til 11,” he reassured her as he buttoned his vest.

“Excellent, come on back!” she smiled, mixing a cocktail for a badgered-looking older woman. He obliged, straightening a stack of coasters and refilling the baskets of napkins that littered the bar.

“So, how are you?” he asked, trying desperately to banish his own awkwardness.

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said breezily, serving up two Cosmopolitans. “I have my grad school classes tomorrow morning, so I'm a little worried. I need to finish my paper.”

Oliver nodded silently, pouring a glass of Samuel Adams from the tap for an elderly gentleman in a long jacket. He eyed the piano in the corner of the pub; a chipping low-quality instrument that probably hadn't been so much as tuned since the mid 50's. He couldn't help but yearn to play it, but his boss was very strict about hiring “professional musicians” to play at the pub, not that they ever used the forgotten piano.

He thought about the piano in the warehouse. No one would ever notice if he played there, the building was abandoned. The disturbance from last time left him a little chary, but even if the noise was just an animal.

“Oliver? It's almost time to close.” Dita was next to him, wiping down the counter and taking a margarita glass from a woozy older lady Oliver recognized as a regular.

“That fast?”

“Time goes by fast when you're stuck in your head.” She was right. The entire evening had flown by. After hustling the last few intoxicated bar-goers out the door, he wiped down the last glass and took a deep breath. Just do it.

“Dita?”

“Yeah?” She turned.

“Um…do you think I could take you out sometime?” Sometime? That was stupid! Save it, quick! “Tomorrow night, maybe?”

“Oh. Oh, Oliver, I'm sorry, I just…it's just that I don't date people I work with. I think it's a bad idea to mix work and pleasure.” She tried to smile consolingly. “I'm sorry. Friends?”

“Oh. Sure.” He managed. I'm hideous. That's all there is to it.

Desperate to escape, he strode to the back room, pulled his brown leather jacket on over his work uniform and slipped out into the night. There was a half moon, and the city lights were so luminous they obscured the dully-glowing stars that speckled the firmament above. It felt nice to be out walking at night. The air seemed crisper in the dark. He thought about everything that had been going on. Magnolia, Dita, his mother, the piano in the bar, the piano in the warehouse…

He tripped on a ridge in the sidewalk, and it jerked him from his thoughts. He had walked well past his apartment, and he was on some weird side street. His eyes met the reflective green street sign at the corner. Willow?

46 Willow Street.

The warehouse was right there, across the street. Oliver glanced at his watch; the silver one Magnolia gave him for Christmas two years ago. 11:52. He should go home. But he didn't want to move. He could just see the piano inside that musty building, glossy where his fingers had wiped away the dust, sitting there in the thick, smothering darkness. Before he knew what he was doing, his body was at the door and his hand hit the metal handle. He grabbed a loose brick to wedge in the door, and was enveloped in the blackness as he crept inside.

Oliver expected it to be pitch black, but the bright night sky sent shafts of cool blue light into the musty building through those enormous windows, and he could see the azure outline of the piano in the middle of the floor, peeking out from behind a crate. He could see the ivory half moon in one of the windows, its mottled surface glowing as he seated himself in front of the grand piano. He played a waltz first, but quickly switched to a soft, emotive love song. He closed his eyes. He was so enraptured that he didn't even notice the rustling in the corner, or the dark figure, static in its movement that seemingly risen out of the cement floor.

Oliver switched to a different dancing song, tremulous and romantic, and it was then that he heard it: a stiff clacking noise, an echo, and then soft tapping sounds. The melody died on air. He looked up, eyes sharp and neck straight. A human figure was in the corner, a soft, curvaceous one that could only be female. She was in shadow, and then suddenly, she collapsed into a clattering heap.

Frozen with fear, he stood stock still for almost a full minute. His mind raced. His mouth was parted slightly. His panicked heart thumped in his chest like a stone. He wanted to scream.

Think, Oliver. He had a small flashlight in his jacket pocket for walking home from the pub. He pulled it out and clicked it on in one motion. He could feel his pulse in his arm, beating erratically. He lifted himself from the bench and slunk over to the collapsed figure. Taking a deep breath, he shone his light down on the shadowed body.

It was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was pale, her skin like the ivory keys of the piano, and she had light ashy hair that swept down to her lower back. Her features were delicate: long lashes, cheeks gently pink, and rosebud lips. Her slender body looked frail, but very graceful. And strangely, she was wearing a ballerina's outfit. White satin; an elegant bodice and a crinoline skirt, with slippers that laced up her calves. He thought quickly, and bent down to check her pulse. His fingers met her wrist.

Her skin was as cold as the cement she lay on. He fought the urge to recoil, horrified at how unimaginably cold she was. She can't be dead, can she? He pushed his fingers down, searching for a vein. But there was no vein. She was solid, her skin hard and acrylic. There was metal in her wrist. It was an artificial joint. She wasn't human. He was looking for the pulse of a doll.

He thought that his heart might rocket from his body; it felt more like a wild animal than an organ. Terrified, he brought the light away from her. How the hell had it been standing? It was eloquently crafted, and those metal joints…perhaps it was some kind of electronic, an unreleased model? But how had it just turned itself on, stood up, and then collapsed. Well, he reasoned, if it was left in a warehouse, then maybe it was a glitched model. He was calming down now, wiping cold sweat from his forehead as he touched her arm again. Its arm. Every part was so critically sculpted: the forearm wasn't just a cylinder; it was shapely, with a feminine wrist, and delicate hands. It was so realistic it was hard to believe, and the face…that face. It was so unfeasibly beautiful, even with her eyes closed. Her lips were so full, yet solemn and unsmiling. Just a doll. Maybe, but something in her lifelessness made him want to please her, make her smile.

He pulled her crumpled body off of a fold in the tarp, and laid her down gently, setting her arms akimbo. Oliver rose off his haunches, thighs burning, and flicked off the flashlight. He stole back to the piano, gliding in the moonlight as though he might wake her. He sat down once more. One more piece and he would go home.

The breezy silence was broken again, the lilting notes of a French stage piece meandering through the air, echoing in a hauntingly beautiful way that almost made Oliver shiver.

Then it happened. She had risen again. He was executing a crescendo; a good one, not like his sloppy attempts at home, when she left the floor, solid on her long, lily-white legs, a bolted joint apparent in each knee. Her eyes snapped open, a vivid olive green, and she began to dance.

She stretched a leg out, like a cat, almost to prove to herself her own pliability, and then she leapt like a tigress, floating on air like the music around her. Oliver looked up from his madly promenading fingertips, and thought he might faint.

The doll was up and moving. Dancing! Her lacy crinoline swirled in the dank air as she spun, letting his music caress her, and then the notes stopped, for Oliver thought he might choke, might be sick, and pulled his fingers from the keys as though they might be snapped off.

And as soon as his music ceased; so did the ballerina doll's dance. She fell to the ground with the last note.

Out of what must have been morbid curiosity, Oliver swallowed and played a few notes. She stirred, a heap on the ground, her legs twitching grotesquely. Who made this doll? She was exceptional; impossible. He was captured. He yearned to play more, and make her dance, make her dance for him, make her smile.

He dragged her across the floor, her head lolling in the socket, her hair spilling over his arms, and laid her against the piano bench. Her twisted body glowed in the moonlight. He sauntered out of the warehouse like he had wings, Dita's mortifying rejection completely forgotten.

He would be back, and he would make her happy.

 

The tiny windows in Oliver's apartment barely let in the morning light, a sparse few beams of warm sun casting geometric shadows on the carpet. He was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and clutching his coffee cup as if it might disappear. He didn't get enough sleep on most nights, since he got out of work so late, but last night he had gotten almost none. His mind was awhirl with fleeting thoughts of music, and of her. He swallowed the last of his coffee. He would need the caffeine.

But, wait…no, no he wouldn't. Today was Saturday.

Maybe he would call Magnolia, tell her everything that had happened. He needed to get it out. She would believe him, right? He grabbed the phone.

“Maggie?”

“Oh hey, what's up?” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Oh, and I don't have much time to talk, I have a meeting in an hour.”

And he told her everything that had happened, finishing with the eager breathlessness of a puppy, waiting for her response.

“Oliver, you can't just break into random buildings! How do you know it's even been abandoned? There could be security cameras!”

“The door was unlocked! And I really need practice.” He tried to justify himself, but now that he thought about it, even he had to admit it had been pretty stupid. Technically, he was a burglar. Damn. He shook himself. “That's not the point!”

Magnolia sighed. “What is the point, then?”

Maybe he shouldn't tell her. She probably already thought there was something wrong with him.

“There was a doll.” Magnolia was silent.

“…A doll?”

“Yes, she was a life-sized ballerina doll, and -”

“She?”

“Well, yes, she was a girl doll. With long hair.” He smiled at the memory.

“Seriously, Oliver, what the hell are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?”

“Um…never mind.”

“Oliver?”

He hung up, and within seconds, it was ringing again.

“Oliver?” A female voice asked. It wasn't Magnolia.

“Speaking.”

“Look, Oliver, it's Dita. I'm really sorry about…you know, what happened the other day. I just…I don't know, you caught me off guard, that's all.”

He blinked. “That's okay.” Is she reconsidering?

“Anyways, I was wondering…” She must be, he thought excitedly. “I can't work on Thursday, so, um, could you cover my shift?”

His heart fell. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” She said quietly, and hung up. He ran outside without looking back.

Oliver made the right onto Willow, a scamper of excitement he could barely contain. He couldn't wait to play again…there was something about that piano just made his fingers fly…and her…that beautiful doll…the whole thing left him weightless, and his heart almost hurt he was so anxious to see her. He felt as if improving would make her happy.

The street was empty, and he pulled open the heavy door, plunging himself into the velvety blackness of the warehouse.

 

Magnolia Feagon had called her brother's apartment four times since their last conversation, and he hadn't picked up once. She knew he didn't like cell phones, so she only called that twice. She drew a breath as she dialed his cell one more time. Dial tone…and…

“Hello?” he sounded woozy, like he had just woken up. It was 6 p.m.

“Oliver? Hi. Are you okay? Where have you been? I've been calling you nonstop for days!”

“What?” he perked up. “I've…I've been home! Paul and I went out earlier today, and then_”

“Earlier today? What about work?”

“What do you mean? Its Saturday.”

“…Oliver, its Tuesday. Are you feeling all right? You sound really out of it. And apparently you are.”

“Tuesday? No its not! That's impossible! I was only in there for a few hours!”

“In where? Oliver?”

Her questions met the dull buzz of a dead line. He had hung up.

 

Oliver was sitting on the stoop of the warehouse, staring in horror at the date garishly displayed on his cell phone screen.

It was Tuesday. How could that be? He put his head in his hands, only to find confirmation in the light stubble that had grown in on his cheeks. He must have fallen asleep. He rubbed his eyes and instantly she floated into his mind. It was always her. Why wouldn't she smile?

 

“I'm really sorry Oliver, but I just can't keep you. You can't miss two days of work without a word.” Mr. Caracci was nice about it, but it was a hard hit. He needed this job.

 

When he walked into the pub three hours later, Dita looked up from the bar, her brow crinkled with worry. She rushed over immediately.

“Oliver, look, I don't know what's going on, but I told the boss you were having a family emergency, and you can just tell her_”

“Why won't she smile?” he cut in.

Dita was speechless.

“What?”

“She won't smile. No matter what I do, she won't smile. I can't please her. I play with all of my soul, new pieces, pieces created for her, and she is still solemn.” He was flushed, his eyes agleam.

“Oliver, you look terrible. Why don't you go home?” Said Dita, her eyes huge with terror. “I'll talk to the boss.”

“It's too hard.” He whispered, and left like a ghost.

 

He was home in his apartment, when he felt it. That stirring in his chest: that ghostly, swirling sensation like something was pulling on him, and he responded. He could hear it, a sweet, low song like the underwater crooning of a whale. Before he knew it, he was there, fingers thundering on the keys, watching her dance, never faltering. Suddenly, she spoke to him. Her sad lips never moved; her delicate white face remained stolid, but he could hear her all the same.

Who are you? She asked, her crystalline voice a beckon in the dark.

“My name is Oliver.” He didn't remember opening his mouth to speak.

I am Satine.

They talked for hours and hours, Oliver's fingers never slowing on the keys, and he was content.

 

Magnolia was worried. She had called Oliver's apartment three times since their last unnerving conversation, with no answer. She had called his work, and his boss said he hadn't been in for almost two weeks.

She booked the earliest flight available, and four hours later, she was leaving the parking lot of Newark Airport, biting her lip as she sped down the main road. She made it to his apartment in 30 minutes, easily a record. Bolting upstairs, she fumbled her keys and burst into the apartment.

Oliver was nowhere to be found. Where is he? Her mind was racing. Maybe the pub? It was all she had, and she at least knew where it was.

“Excuse me?” said Magnolia, grabbing the attention of a small brunette girl who was tending the bar, “My brother Oliver works here, have you seen him recently?”

“No, he hasn't been in.” The girl's eyes were hard. “The last time he came in was two weeks ago, and he was acting like a mad person. He kept saying that he `couldn't make her smile', and I told him to just go home.” She offered aloofly.

“Do you have any idea who he was talking about? Where he might be?” Magnolia begged.

“No. Oh, wait…the last time I saw him; he said something about a warehouse where he played piano. He said it was on…oh gosh, what was the street name? Some kind of tree.” She frowned.

“Elm? Oak? Willow?” Magnolia suggested frantically.

“Willow! That was it!”

“Oh, thank you! What did you say your name was?”

“Dita.” The girl smiled. “You are?”

“Magnolia, thank you Dita. Do you happen to have a city map?”

“We keep them up front for tourists.” She pointed.

“Thank you.” Magnolia rushed out of the pub, snatching a map and leaping into her rental car. She took the map and scanned it, quickly locating the apartment's address, which she marked. From there, she fervently looked in all directions for a “Willow St.” And there it was, two blocks up. Excellent. She grabbed her bag and cell phone, dialing the local police as she shot up the street.

Magnolia slipped out of the car and patted her bag. She had a flashlight and a can of mace, just in case. Luckily, the warehouse was monstrous and impossible to miss. Her eyes found the double doors, and she held her breath as her shaking fingers pried one open. Her heart was pounding a mile a minute, and she thought it might burst when she walked around the first crate.

There was Oliver, slumped over a piano, seemingly unconscious. She ran to him, dropping her things to the ground with a clamor. The noise seemed to waken him, and he stirred. She lifted his head and cradled him, watching his eyelids flutter with drowsy wakening, murmuring his name like a prayer, her eyes glassy with terror.

He was a skeleton. Normally very thin, almost gangly for his height; now she could see every bone. His skin was a pallid gray, his cheekbones looked like they might rip through his flesh, and the bony rim of his eye sockets were visible. When had he last eaten? She slowly pulled him off the piano bench, and laid him on the floor. She wrapped her jacket around him just as his eyes opened.

 

“Maggie?” It was a hoarse, grating whisper; so quiet she could barely hear him.

“Oliver, my God, Oliver, you're okay.” She whispered too, smiling softly. “You're going to be okay, we'll get you to a hospital.”

“Why can't I please her?” he rasped.

“Who?” Magnolia frowned.

“Satine. My doll.” He answered impatiently.

Magnolia's blood ran cold. His doll? She turned for a look around, but saw nothing.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Oliver.”

“Oliver?” she turned back and gasped in horror. He was crawling onto the piano bench, his feverish red eyes bulging from their hollowed sockets, his shoulder bones grotesquely blanketed in tight skin. He strained and lifted himself, nearly collapsing onto the piano top. She watched in trepidation as his long, bony fingers found the keys and he began to play, a fast and furious Spanish dancing song, his face pale and strained, his discoloured eyes laced with dark red veins and gleaming with madness.

“There she is!” His pained, triumphant whisper was barely audible over the swirling melody. “There she is! Can't you see her dancing? Isn't she magnificent? Why won't she smile for me?” His maddened eyes closed, and his fingers slackened. The song died and he fell to the floor, the crack of his skull meeting the concrete echoing. His eyes would not open again.

“No!” Magnolia screamed, running to his side. The warehouse was blanketed with horrible silence as Magnolia collapsed on top of him. She began to whimper: quiet, gasping sobs, when she saw it. She could see the doll, propped against the tarps, its head lolling back. Its eyes gleamed like black half-moons. It was beautiful. She hated it.

 

Inspector Blackwell watched grimly as two EMTs walked out of the building with a stretcher, vacated by the covered body. Another technician was trying to calm the victim's sister, who had fallen into inconsolable weeping. Two of his men exited the building as well, carrying something large and seemingly quite heavy in a folded tarp

“Commander Blackwell, I think you should see this.” Stuttered the first, a young, green officer. They laid the tarp on the pavement, their charge revealed.

Blackwell found himself staring at a human-sized doll, of exquisite craftsmanship, with long pale hair and graceful, highly realistic limbs. It was so human-like, it gave him the creeps right away, and it was in fine condition for something that had been lying in an old warehouse.

“We found it under some tarps in the corner, sir.” Said the other officer. Blackwell said nothing. There was something about the doll that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He eyed it critically, surveying the creamy fake skin, the impossibly delicate features. Then he realized what it was. Its eyes were closed, and it was smiling.