P.O.V. Horror Experiment

The purpose of this experiment is
to test a P.O.V. horror experience.
For the few daring and bound readers,
this exercise might cause: headaches,
fits, rash, seizures, nausea, anxiety,
sweats, irritability, goiter, heart attacks,
injury, psychosis, death, etc. You find these
risks encouraging & unfounded. Enjoy.

Now pretend that you have two hands.
(Perhaps that's a tall order for some.)
However, if all you had were two hands
to use, and of course a trusty, solid
imagination; you'd be tasked to put each
to opposite sides of your head, slightly
above your ears and hold them there...

Do not actually do this. The following
exercise is physically perilous without
an imagination, so it's important for your
sanitation that you follow ALL of the fol-
lowing important directions. Are your hands
firmly pressed against your head yet?
They are? Then re-read the lines
beginning 'this' and the second stanza.

What does the the first line state? Great.
There is a game called "Simon Says."
Are you familiar? This is important...
Is your name Simon? It's probably better
that you play Randy Rambles instead,
if so. Otherwise welcome, non-simon,
to your first, first-person point-of-view
(P.O.V.) adult horror literature show.

Where are your hands? Understand
and remember, this is NOT Simon Says.
We're adults, so where are your hands?
Okay... with your hands on your head,
apply steady pressure and imagine
yourself in a chair suspended mid-air,
midnight-visionless: no floor, walls, or sky.
Just a chair in an infinitum of nothingness.

Holding your head (floating precariously
in your chair), you hear an unidentifiable
sound. It calls once, isolating you where,
in darkness, your chair begins to gently tip
backward on it legs then stops... Time
passes. Uneasy, you wait the approach
of that sound again, by and by with only
drops of gravity as your companion.

The unstable sensation of suspense
makes you listen more intently. Your
inner-ear naturally strains to hear
anything... There's nothing. You lean
forward to regain balance, and from
doing so, the chair tips back more;
sticking you in a cradled position with
the looming possibility of that sound

returning. Now think about the sound.
Was it real? Focus on the details of it.
A discernible sound starts to grow...
It grows from an idea into a quiet tone
that gets louder. You press harder, but
your hands get lighter. Your chair tips a
little further. Did you notice your hands
and your head getting warmer?

The inclination... that things are about
to get weird makes your chair wobble.
Your chair is not safe. Even normal
chairs break, splinter, crack, slice, pinch,
puncture. Yours isn't a normal chair.
Your chair is supernaturally dangerous,
and it crumbles over a bottomless chasm
with you at its weight limit. Now pretend

this isn't true. Pretend your chair is
indestructible. Deny the development
of a Hubble headache around your mind's
corner, expressing your temples. You hate
this chair. It's beneath you... but WHAT
is under the chair? Fear the fourth lines
of 'this' and the fourth stanza. Do you
want to look under this chair?

Redundancy makes the chair shake
violently. Double negatives cause
arms to fall off. Answering "no-yes,"
loosens the hardware that secures
the base to the legs. You are now
hanging awkwardly from the seat.
You can't see anything, but you feel
something sharp against the back

of your neck. The tone returns, louder
at first, then quieter. Instinctively,
you remove your hands, bringing
your head along for the rider. Since
this isn't a game of Simon Says, what is
now just a flat loft with a few protruding
nails, unfortunately, is no time for options.
Whatever holds you...

makes a decision to peg the remainder
of your imagination to one of the metal
prongs, so your ephemerals can be
securely spun and evenly carved
for otherworldly mouths to service you
like a kebab. At least through this journey
you manifest a head so you can follow
directions better in the next test.