• Welcome to the Fantasy Writing Forums. Register Now to join us!

the machine house

ThinkerX

Myth Weaver
Been having bits of dreams set in this place for a while now. Awoke from a semi coherent version this morning.

In the dream, I believe myself to be a government clerk or agent (not spy or a cop or anything remotely similar) working on the third or fourth floor of a weird building. There are distant and not so distant grinding sounds. Walls and door change locations from one day to the next. At times, I walk past recessed spaces filled with giant gears or skirt trap doors that open to more machinery. The place has a sort of early 20th century 'clockwork feel' to it.

I have two bosses: a large fellow who is grumpy and upset most of the time, and another who detests my very existence. Coworkers come and go - the house has a very high employee turnover. Yesterday's work buddy is today's empty desk. The pay sucks, and often comes in the form of a few bills doled out by ones of the bosses. I am constantly being ordered out of the building and onto the streets for what I believe are 'inspections' and 'investigations,' which mostly involve pointless roaming around a chilly, colorless metropolis with indifferent inhabitants.

Then the big boss appears at my desk, radiating hostility, and beckons me to follow him. I do so, and am guided to a death trap of a mechanical space. 'Enter,' he orders.

'Why?'

'Because you've lived to long.'

Instead, I flee - which brings me to the coda or conclusion.

I (apparently) notified the local law enforcement, who raided the building, which was a giant mechanical death trap. My bosses - both of them were multiple mass murderers who'd directly or indirectly killed most of their 'employees.' I wasn't really a 'government agent' at all, merely a temporary hireling who'd outlived most of his coworkers.

Last image:

grainy black and white pics of the House, showing it as a large three or four story 'U' shaped structure. Men in old time suits inspecting giant gears that moved walls and opened trapdoors.
 
Write this story, and I would read it.

It would be like a tale from the perspective of a surviving housekeeper in the HH Holmes' "Murder Hotel" constructed for the Chicago's World Fair.
 
Sorry for being self indulgent, but this reminded me of the opening to my novel published in 2013:

I’m among these people.



We’re upstairs in someone’s house – a bit like a bar. I’ve been here before, because I know the way the late afternoon sun flows red over black and white floor tiles, and the shadows cast at picasso angles by iron lace furniture.



Instead of music, there is the sound of rushing water.



The girl with the dirty claret hair is watching me. There can only be one reason for her interest.



As I knew she would, the girl comes and sits at my table. She is younger than I thought, despite the gum leaf tattoos on her neck and shoulders.



She doesn’t speak and the roar of water seems louder. I feel myself drawn into the dead black depth of her adolescent stare, but before I lose myself completely, I see movement reflected, and I know they’re behind me.



I leap from my chair, and I’m flying through a window – landing on the ground in a shower of shards – unharmed, and racing through familiar but unfamiliar streets, as though someone had torn to shreds the suburbs of my experience and reassembled the pieces at random.



In my confusion, I run across a field, making for the back lane home. But instead of home, I see the old public toilet block at Kenley Park – an eerie sanctuary in the violet gloom before the street lights come on.



Then I hear the baritone drone of motorbikes in the distance.



They are coming.
 
Top