The Oubliette - A Michael Alexander Story

The well was dark, except for a small pool of light that seemed to filter down in streams from above, oozing through the myrk. Droplets of water, dripping into pools of water, echoed loudly in the circular chamber, the odd patterns maddening loud. There was a smell too, of rotten molds and shriveled fungus that had grown and died, itself starving in the hot, damp, putrescent environment. 

And there was the darkness.

The light from above didn’t seem to penetrate it, or illuminate it, and the girl huddled against one wall, her knees tightly tucked up under her chin. She was beyond trembling. The fear that gripped her came, not from the unknown, but from knowing exactly what pulsed and oozed in that inky pool of black. She had pulled into herself, forming the smallest possible position, as if she could hide from everything. Her face was blank, the tears long since dried. She was covered in mud and slime, some of it dry, some of it disturbingly fresh and her filthy fingers had failed to strip some of the oily mucus that had been left behind each time she crossed the room. Her dress, once a pretty blue, wasn’t so much soiled, but dissolved, gaping holes and decaying threads that broke away, leaving much of her grimy skin exposed. One tiny foot was bare, while the other was covered with a muck stained sock. She didn’t know where her shoes had gone.

She didn’t want to know.

Her stomach rumbled and she stared across the room. It had been over a day since she’d last eaten, a circular steel plate filled with hard bread and some sort of goop that had tiny bits of some unnamed meat in it. Even the bland and dismal taste hadn’t stopped her from licking the plate clean, once she’d stopped crying. Once she put the darkness out of her mind, concentrating on sustenance. She’d been forced to cross the room. But then, she’d been so thirsty…

Like before, the tiny door opening came as a surprise, the light beyond so piercing, so painful, that she had to look away. It appeared on the opposite side of the well and she heard the sound of the sliding metal. When she was finally able to look, blinking blindly, she saw the faint outline of the cup. But there was no way she could cross over to the other side again. Not through the light. Or the darkness. For hours she sat there, shaking, until thirst became to much. 

Slowly, she had inched herself along the wall, opposite the darkness, still huddling, still terrified. She found pools of stagnant water and tried drinking from them, but was forced to spit out the brackish fluid. Still, it motivated her to move on. It took hours, one inch. Then another. Always panicked, always trembling, ready to scream and flinch and fight. 

And just when she finally thought she might succeed, it came for her. 

But that was almost a day before and now she sat, staring across the well. She’d drunk every bit of the water that had been left for her when it had released her, leaving her in a viscous heap, sobbing. Hunger had now become the issue and she knew that inching her way across the well was pointless. It would sense her. It would find her. It would take her. 

The darkness gurgled. 

Her stomach rumbled and suddenly fury flowed through her. Anger sparked and she rose, more of her clothing disintegrating, disturbing flashes of bare skin showing at her hip, loins, and breast. She ignored her state of attire. It didn’t matter. Not any more. And with that she darted across the room, running as fast as her little frame could take her. She crossed the light, screaming as she rushed toward the other side.

It made no difference.

It grabbed her ankle, one muculent appendage wrapping like an iron manacle around her foot, sliding up her calf and knee. She fell, crying out, expecting to hit the hard stone, but another of the darkness’ limbs caught her, only to pull her out of the light itself. A third tentacle encircled her wrist, pulling her, not just toward itself, but stretching her, and she saw, for a moment, the high ceiling of the oubliette, before she closed her eyes. 

“No! No! Please! Not again! Please! Please! DON’T!” She cried out, unable to bear it as she felt it crawling, oozing along her skin. It reached her thigh, pulling her legs apart, stretching her open, arms and legs spread wide. Then came the touch, the horror of it as it found her sex, it’s own slime providing the necessary lubricant as it began to explore her petals, slipping through her folds, squirming and digging its way into her depths. 

She screamed, fighting it, but there was no way to resist. It held her with ferocity and she felt her dress tear the rest of the way, her chest exposed. Another tentacle found her, then another, and she would have batted at the mucus covered strands wrapping around each of her breasts. She shuddered, clenching her jaw, as the end of one thick, bulging feeler pushed into her sex, pulsing and pumping. She broke and stopped resisting, just as she had the other times, traumatized as the darkness worked her. Her body shuddered, failing to cope with the dichotomy of sensations, of utter loathing, shame, and then…

She groaned. Her breathing quickened. She shook her head. “No! I don’t want this! Not again! I can’t! It’s not…” but then it was too late. Her pulse quickened as she panted, the tentacles working at her nipples, rubbing them back and forth as they tightened around her breasts. Worse, something seemed to be playing with her clitoris, even as the thicker limb pushed back and forth through her sex. Her body trembled, this time with something that seemed to terrify her even more and her toes curled as her hips thrust frantically. Her back arched and she cried out, not in fear, not in desperation, not in hunger. But in horrified satisfaction.

And it let her go. She fell to the ground with a wet, mucky thump and she lay there panting. She was covered in its effluvium, the sticky goo dissolving what was left of her dress. She sat up, disgusted and humiliated, and her hands brushed frantically at the mucus still coating her breasts and loins. She let out a sob and started crawling, heading for the food, her own body now leaving a glistening trail out of the darkness.

She got to the plate and began eating. She’d suffered too much to deny herself sustenance. She crammed the crumbling biscuit into her mouth, then scooped the gray sludge off the plate, jamming it into her mouth. She stared across the oubliette, hating. 

And wanting. 

She curled in on herself again, feet tucked up under her chin, the mucilaginous slime of the darkness drying and breaking from her skin. Her dress was gone, her skin filthy with dirt and mud and slime. Only the sock, the one sock, remained. She stared across the void, the pool of light, and the darkness. She was thirsty. She dozed, exhausted, only to wake parched. 

Across the oubliette, the small door opened. A cup of water appeared. She didn’t hesitate. Slowly she crawled, her energy sapped, her will to resist gone. She knew there was nothing she could do. She moved into the pool of light, expecting it, waiting for it. 

Wanting it.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Take me, you bastard.”

Tentacles shot out from the darkness, wrapping around her. Wrists and ankles and torso. She screamed as it dragged her out of the light, only to gurgle as something disgusting and thick and strong was jammed deep into her mouth. She felt her legs parted and then… 

In the pool of light, there lay one, dirty, dissolving sock. And in the darkness, a tiny gasp. And a groan.