Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Round 3 - Team # 01 (Giorgio & Dharmesh) #ftc1516


Bright sunshine streams in through the window. Roosevelt lays on the couch, stretching his legs. Comfortable, he grins. His stomach rumble. Pizza. He picks up his smartphone and orders with just a text. Getting up, he bends over, his lower back cracks, making him grimace. He runs his hand through his hair, realizing it's somewhat greasy and resolving to wash it later that day, after pizza of course. Biding time, he starts to pick up the living room, opening the curtains wider on the window. As it gets later, it gets chillier. Bronson, his german shephard, trots into the room at the sound of his master moving about. Gorgeous, shiny coat, bright eyes. He cocks his head as if to say Hey, I get pizza too, right? The dog seems to have a sixth sense for pizza. 

There is a knock on the door, and Roosevelt shoots a sloppy grin at the dog. “Pizza time, bud.” He strolls over to the door, and as he goes to reach for the handle, a deep and gut wrenching fear takes hold of him. He turns to Bronson, who has backed into the corner, eyes wide, panting, spittle foaming on the edge of his mouth. He looks like he is about to seize up. Roosevelt turns and steps towards the dog. There is more knocking, loud and insistent. The dog skitters around the corner, running towards the bedroom. Shrugging, Roosevelt turns to the door. Again, electric dread seems to shoot from the door knob through his arm. Why didn't he use the doorbell? He asks himself. What the fuck, it's just pizza. Chill, dude. He reaches into his back pocket for his worn leather wallet. Pulling out a twenty, he unchains the door and opens it, abruptly stopping halfway.

“Can we use your phone? Our mom will be worried about us.” Roosevelt stares at the two children, both looking shyly at the ground. There is a male, probably twelve or so, holding the hand of a significantly younger girl, maybe five or six. Cold fear pools in his stomach. “I don't know if it's a good idea,” he says. “Why don't you tell me her number and I'll call her for you?”

“You must let us in. We're just children. We would like to call our mom.” The child has a high, clear voice, innocent and angelic sounding. 

“I don't think so.”

“LET US IN!” The voice is no longer angelic, but deep and masculine, echoey sounding and petrifying. 

“What the..?”

The child looks up, and the first thing Roosevelt notices is the carefree grin splashed across the boy's face. Just a boy, nothing more. Roosevelt looks past the boy's grin and takes in his brown hair hanging down past his mouth, his cute button nose, and his pitch black eyes. No whites, no pupils. It's as if he were wearing sclera lenses. 

“We don't have a gun or anything to hurt you with”. The innocent voice is back. “We can't come in unless you invite us.” It is at this point that the little girl looks up at him, black eyes shining, light reflecting off of them, dancing in the abyss. 

“Who are you?”

“We might be children.”

“You might be or you are?”

For a second the boy's shape seems to flicker, become fuzzy around the edges. The boy and girl turn as one to look at each other. It's as if they're speaking, in fact it's certain they're holding a conversation, although nobody says a word. The boy turns back to Roosevelt, blue eyes clear and innocent. 

“Please, sir, we're just children that want to call our mom. My sister needs to use the bathroom real bad. Our mom will worry. You should invite us in.” The girl turns to look at him as well, green eyes shining in the sun. 

“I can't let you in, what's your number and I'll call your mom.” He shakes himself internally, vowing to get a catscan at the earliest convenience. Roosevelt turns to grab paper off the counter, and as he looks back, two sets of black eyes stare at him, grins gone, a deep menacing scowl taking the place of the innocent face. 

“Let us in”. The boy stand on his tiptoes, staring directly into Roosevelt's eyes. In a dazed state, he pushes the door open, dread pooling from his stomach to his groins, something screaming at him to close the door, but everything's fuzzy, so fuzzy. He hears growling. Bronson is behind him. He snaps out of the reverie, slamming the door shut. The children walk to the window, staring in at him as he slides down the door, shaking and frantic. 

“I'm calling the police!” He lurches towards the couch, grabbing his phone and wrenching it from his charger. As he turns back, the children are walking away from him. Shortly after, the doorbell sounds. He creeps up, looking in the peephole.


Rating - 150/200

Total Rating (3 Rounds) - 415/600 (69.17%)

Judges - Mayank Sharma, Mohit Trendster and Pankaj Vijayvargiya

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