The Burrough Hill's Devil

A short story.

In desolate space he sat, his mind growing clouded in it's fog of torment. How long had it been now, since the curtains were pulled back, giving him light? How long had it been since solace clothed his back, granting that relief he so desperately longed for? Was it premonition or insanity that plagued his every thought? he wondered, spiraling into another manic episode of panic. In the darkness, Thomas Carpindell draped the sheets of his bed onto every mirror that hung in his apartment, wanting so desperately to shatter them into a thousand pieces, but knowing that by doing so it would create several more portals of reflection to scatter in the carpets, piece by piece would have to be held in his hand to clean the mess to avoid the blood from his feet staining below. No sound but his own breathing and the ticking of the clock surfaced, minus the weaving ring of silence, echoing loudly in his ears like church-bells. Though hardly any noise at all, it felt like a thousand drums and alarms going off, overwhelmed to the brim of insanity. Cross legged in the center of his living room floor, the beads of a crucifix necklace dangled from his clasping hands, rocking back and forth slowly. Listening. Waiting. Tick, tock, tick, tock..tick..tock. Oh, how his patience was running thin, glancing at the walls. Were the shadows that danced along the walls simply nothing more than the back of night, or something more, lingering through the apartment living room?

Thickening air breezed an icy chill through the room, bringing a shiver down the young man's spine, watching his breath grow visible, smoking before his watering eyes. It was there. He knew it was there. He could feel the piercing gaze of haunting eyes, simply.. Lingering. Through the bare-moonlight that peaked little light through his curtains, Thomas rose from the floor, clenching the necklace so tightly that his hand began to bleed, but the adrenaline of terror seemed to peel the pain from his senses. His heart, running rampant in anxiety, jumped into his throat at the deafening echo of a crash from the hall, bringing him briefly backwards and off the floor. Careful steps creaked along the floor towards the hall, growing more and more tired of hiding from whatever this thing was that so hauntingly housed itself within his walls. A deep breath settled in his chest, seeing that .. thing .. crawl along the roof, it's body contorting into the messy jumble of skin and bones it was. Then - it stopped - it's neck cracking as it bent inhumanly backwards towards the young man, who, too frightened to speak, stood frozen in unbearable terror. The hallway light, once off, now flickered, revealing the gray scaled, yet oddly humanoid looking creature upon the ceiling. Like a living nightmare, Thomas watched as it crawled closer with each flicker - causing a frantic crawl along the floor as he backed up, only to slam into the curved wall that separated to the hallway. The sound, like cracking fingers and snapping bones clashed with each movement it made, it's embodied moans and what could only be described as attempted, or possibly foreign, words pierced the silence. Flicker after flicker, it got closer... and closer.. And closer.. Until long and pointed fingers stretched past the arch. It's eyes, white, soulless, stared into the teary browns of Carpindell's. Unable to run, or to speak, he sat motionless - fear overtaking his ability to truly inhabit his fight-or-flight response. As it's head peaked further down, it cracked, it's mouth opening wider and wider as a bellowing shriek emitted from the throat of the beast - Carpindell's hands cupped his ears - and the lights frantically flickering... before violent silence rang once more, and broken glass flew from a shattering bulb. Tears stained the face of a once gleeful, now anxiety riddled man. The blood of his hand wiped along his face as his hands fell to his side, moving to stand as the courage finally invaded his system. Ghost-quiet, sat his home - if home, was a word you could use to to call it. So riddled with bullet-happenings that could hardly be considered as such - frankly, it was nothing more than a shell of brink-insanity.

Now to his feet, he stood in disbelief - a voice, so familiar but so uncertain, moaned from beyond the hallway. Senseable, he refused to step any further, regretting his decision to step forward towards the sound previous. But as he ignored, the voice grew louder, and louder, echoing in the darkness, it spoke his name. And despite the urge to run or stay put, unwilling feet began to drag along the floors. Uncontrollably, he seeped closer and closer, watching the walls of the hallway seem to stretch further and further away, as if he were experiencing some sort of LSD like trip. The sheets that cloaked the two mirrors in the hallway tugged into thin air with a violent pull. The hallway grew longer, but his feet dragged closer, and closer - until he stood in the middle of both mirrors. And in the darkness, he watched as his reflections contorted - appearing in two separate ways. On one side, his reflection stared blankly at him, it's eyes pure white, veins slowly growing visible as they began to bulge through paling skin - and the other, he watched his reflection stand facing the end of the hall, it's head slowly turning to face him, it's face bloodied with something, looking like a pencil, sticking out from his eye. As it turned, he watched the other side - seeing the other eyes pull from the socket, and ooze down his face. Eyes peeled away as they closed, refusing to open them, feeling himself be pulled further, and further, and further..

Giving in, Thomas opened his eyes once more - feeling regret as his heart stopped and a shriek scrambled from his chest, seeing himself stand before him, but it wasn't him. It's jaw opened wide, eyes pure of white and leaking bloodied-tears from veiny pale cheeks, a deafening scream so loudly piercing his ears that they could possibly burst. His body, once moving forward, shot back in the heap of a single moment - slinging back as the walls stretched further away to the point of pure and utter darkness, before feeling his back slam into the cold floor, sliding into the wall.

Pure and utter silence greeted his fall, but his heart, feeling as though it'd break a rib, beat so harshly to the point that he could hear it pounding away in his ears. Thumb, thumb, thumb, thumb..

His face buried into the floor, arms gripped and covering his head as he resorted into a near fetal position. Nothing more than the faint cries of horror gave in the dark, and nothing more touched, or tugged the hour. In the two-o-clock moonlight, Thomas Carpindell shrunk further and further into his shell. The hand of Burrough Hill's devil leaves its mark forever on the soul of the young man, forever slowly stealing away the last breath of his energy to simply exist. Because he knew, that no matter what he done, or how much of an effort he may put up against the shadow that cast over him, that he could escape the horror that followed - he couldn't, no matter what he did, escape the Burrough Hill's devil. His soul was his, and the delusions and pain that it inflicted would be endured until his final breath.