A Haze Of Halls

Excellence Award in the 'Read Write Repeat 2015' competition

My fingers reached tentatively for the rifle. It was acutely cold; it was hazardously wet. My hope descended in a deluge of despair with the near-to-bone-chilling dampness that gripped me in its talons.
“Will I ever get out of here?” I screamed silently before proceeding deeper into the shadows — the heinous shadows in that haze of halls.
It was then that I heard the murderous muttering.
“You must stay together,” Mr Donovan had warned.
(“Why should I?”)
“Richards, keep in line.”
(“. . . and if I don’t?”)
“If we enter the museum this way, we’ll find the information needed to complete the worksheet.”
(“But if we enter another way?”)
“And class — Richards, are you listening? — stay away from the lower levels. They are out of bounds.”
(“Sounds like fun to me...”)
The lower level was a golden ticket for my imagination: sombre uniforms emblazoned with medals, telling tales of heroic deeds, guarded an armoury of war-ready weapons; photographs of whip-bearing officers, with handlebar moustaches, glared intimidatingly from cold walls; and there were halls — halls, halls, halls — halls leading to horrendous, historic adventures! One led to a display of Renaissance artworks, another to treasure from ancient Chinese dynasties, and then there was the hall leading to the secret passage. At the end of this stood a rusted gate, with a heavy key sitting alluringly in the keyhole. My face blanched. Tentatively, I turned it. It screeched open to a phenomenal sight!
The War Hall was like a merciless madhouse: more malevolent than a murderer’s knife, more unhinged than an escaped lunatic, more insidious than a banshee’s shriek. Oddly, it had become wet underfoot. I had crossed some invisible line. As I stroked the handle of the steel—sharp weapon, I imagined myself as a soldier in a trench — a soldier in a trench being pursued by a mortal enemy! In spite of my rising panic, I was determined that I wouldn’t be caught. Soundlessly, I inched towards the exit.
Without hesitation, I sped off. Turn left, then right — falter — slipping - right — dart — losing balance — keep to the edge — trip — go back — go for it — muttering closer now — tripping..., tumbling...
I was tumbling through sinister surroundings, tumbling right along to a pair of heavy duty sports shoes.
“Oh, back at last Richards?”
(“Yeah, from this phenomenal war hall!”)
“You haven’t been in the lower levels, have you?”
(“Silly question!”)
“Nothing to say?”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“Don’t let this happen again!”
“No, Sir...”
(“Well, not until my imagination and I go on another excursion!”)

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