Rose Red An Imp Such As I

**A/N: About the time I recognized exactly what was reflecting in Annie's crystal sun catcher, this idea came to me. He strikes me as a guardian of sorts, privy to the secrets of Rose Red. **

**DISCLAIMER: ****I do not own any of the characters or ideas created by Stephen King. I borrowed them for the entertainment and amusement of my audience.**

**SUMMARY: I'll spin you a tale, so deliciously unbelievable.**

**GENRE: Poetry (free-verse)**

**RATING: PG-13**

**DATE: August 22, 2013**

**::~*~::**

Come in, child.  
Warm yourself by the hearth.  
Remove the wet cloak from your shoulders  
And lay it out to dry.  
I'll spin you a tale,  
So deliciously unbelievable,  
You'll do _anything_ to hear more.

An imp such as I,  
Sees and hears far more  
Then you do credit me for.  
Allow me to be the first,  
To welcome you to Rose Red.

Such an intriguing history,  
You won't believe it;  
Yet, I will tell you all  
And, perhaps, just perhaps,  
You may see for yourself  
The horrors I do unfold,  
Before the night is o'er.

Long have I reigned,  
In stone cold silence,  
Upon my perch above the door.  
Throughout the years, have I marked  
Each and every visitor below.  
Many have gone in,  
But some have not come out,  
And yet they walk the winding passages,  
My mistress did create.  
Walk them still,  
But look, you laugh!

I knew that you would not believe,  
But my tale has only just begun.  
Perhaps, by tale's terrible end  
You may look upon this house  
Quite differently,  
With a reverence  
You didn't think you possessed.

Where should I start?  
Whom would you like to hear about?  
Ellen Rimbauer nee Gilchrist  
And her lust-filled husband?  
Or perhaps your curiosity  
Leans towards April Rimbauer;  
The daughter with the withered arm,  
Her lost trail within the house  
Forever barred to a mother's desire?  
What about Adam Rimbauer?  
The first male Rimbauer to escape  
And yet, doomed to a tragic life  
Haunted by the house  
That always sought to claim him home.

How about Douglas Posey,  
Dancing demonically before the fire?  
Look how he twists!  
Look how he turns!  
A grace about his stiff limbs,  
That the maw of hell is  
Quite envious of;  
Though captured within its grasp,  
He's dancing still.

_Sukeena_, your heart says.  
Very well.  
Let me tell you  
About the African servant,  
Who became more beloved of Ellen,  
Then her husband ever was.  
An innocent bystander, you ask?  
Or perhaps one perfectly in tune  
With the power of the house,  
Molding it to her dear mistress' desire?  
That, dear child, is a secret  
I cannot confess.

Did you hear about Liza Albert?  
Such a prim and proper housewife,  
She had no business with Rose Red,  
Yet here she came,  
Following the trail of those  
Who would quiver in their shoes  
For just an hour or two,  
But returning quite safely  
To the sunshine  
Waiting just outside.  
I do believe, she is wandering still  
Forever searching  
For the door to the sunshine  
Waiting just outside.

I see the disbelief inside you,  
Refuses to fall away.  
A roll of the eyes,  
But a strained chuckle of the lips.  
Something has caught you.  
Something has penetrated your soul.  
You sense what I am well-acquainted with.  
The unease,  
The chill,  
The terror clawing at your being.  
It has been my old friend  
These many years.

Perhaps you'd like to hear  
Of fame! Of fortune! Of scandal!  
The actress;  
Oh, the actress!  
So beloved, so revered;  
Admired everywhere she went.  
Rose Red took a liking to her,  
And when Rose Red desires something,  
Rose Red always gets it.  
Methinks the house was envious.  
It did not care for others  
More desirable than it.  
Its reputation was in peril,  
And so, goodbye, Deanna went.

From my perch upon the door,  
Many moons have I slumbered there.  
Upon such eerie  
And fog-filled nights,  
The specters,  
Victims of the house's birth,  
Labor still, beneath the silver light;  
Cursed to never leave their toil.  
If, um, _when_ you leave this night,  
Take care to see them  
Standing 'round,  
For the night is ripe  
For such a sight as that.

Mr. Meader,  
With his glass of mead!  
Oh, how my stony insides,  
Quiver in jest of such a joke.  
They called it  
A_ reaction.  
_If only they'd known the truth.  
Ill-equipped were they,  
To handle what really happened.  
For the sake of mortal hearts,  
The truth shall never pass my lips.

You are still unconvinced,  
But in word only:  
Your body betrays you.  
I see how your fingers curl  
Clutching the arms of that chair.  
I see the whites of your eyes,  
As they widen with each new horror.  
I see your feet stamping the floor,  
Seeking the nearest exit,  
If only you could win free.  
However, your body is frozen in terror,  
And there must you stay,  
For I have one more story to impart:  
Rose Red's most recent victory!

For hence, three weeks past,  
Some sought this glorious house out,  
Seeking to plunder its secrets  
And steal off with its mysteries.  
I can understand,  
My mistress did not care  
For such as they.  
And yet, amongst them,  
In brilliant throng,  
An angel did approach.  
Timid, shy, slow to speak,  
Yet power did she radiate!

The residents of this powerful house  
Roused themselves from their deep slumber!  
Who was this child,  
Come into their embrace?  
She, who had the power,  
To wake them from their sleep.  
By ones, by twos  
They followed silently,  
Coming from all corners of the house  
Treading softly upon her heels.  
April, sweet April  
Was first to make a move,  
Bestowing upon this wondrous angel,  
A gift that only she could bestow.  
Success it was! She accepted it gladly!  
Have you ever heard the rejoicing  
Of spirits in the night?  
What a sound they made,  
Yet only the dead could hear it!

But amongst this wonderful discovery,  
Ellen's voice was heard,  
Musical, yet firm.  
This angel could progress Rose Red  
And must not be allowed to leave.  
Seal the doors,  
Turn the windows,  
Stuff the cracks.  
Such power had never before entered Rose Red.  
They must _all_ stay and build.  
The will of the mistress is iron,  
You must understand that.

Like those before,  
And many anticipated since,  
They arrived, naïve,  
Unprepared for the house.  
Such simpletons they always are!  
Thinking they can best a house!  
It's only wood.  
It's only stone.  
It's only glass.  
In the end, though,  
They bowed before the fury  
Of Rose Red.

Not all, mind you.  
Some escaped,  
Including the angel Ellen sought to claim.  
Our mistress claims it trivial,  
Nothing to be upset about.  
Even those who were called to stay,  
Have furthered Rose Red's progress immensely.

I should have liked to tell you about them,  
But my time is drawing short.  
As we've sat here,  
Stranded guest and humble servant,  
The residents have roused themselves  
Once again.

Rose Red will never truly die.  
They may tear the roof off,  
They may fell the walls,  
They may crush the stairs and gardens,  
But Rose Red will rise from the ashes;  
A phoenix, never doomed to death;  
Merely transitioning from one phase  
To another.

Always, always  
They are searching.  
Seeking out those  
To help Rose Red build.  
My mistress is not particular,  
And one is as good as another.  
She hopes that the angel will return,  
Having planted within her bosom,  
A yearning to return—to help!  
Until then,  
The builders must be recruited.  
The ranks must grow,  
For that is the only way  
That Rose Red will flourish.

Adieu, dear child,  
Your company  
I must depart.  
There are others here,  
Who desire to know you,  
And who am I,  
To deny them such a treat.  
Rest assured, though  
We will speak again,  
For I have become such friends  
With all of my mistress' dear guests.  
If chance should smile,  
And opportunity allow,  
Visit me upon my perch.  
Ellen will allow you  
One day of rest,  
Before she insists the building recommence.


End file.

Rose Red, Horror, Poetry