The water pours from the tap, splashing into the pool below, trapped by the metal sink. A dish falls in to the water, causing ripples. Its floats momentarily before sinking to the murky depths of the basin, like a feather falls through air. It hits the bottom soaking in the steaming hot water.
I plunge my hands in, scrubbing the plate which had previously held my dinner which consisted of canned corn and ham, instant potatoes, and water. Nothing was fresh, how could it be? There's no fertile soil on this god forsaken planet. Even if there was there would be no point, there are no plants or even seeds to dig their roots into the ground. The only plants that sit above the soil are dead and dry, not yet pulled up by the wind, or crushed by their own weight. None the less, the food is acceptable. I'm lucky really, lucky that my mother always kept a lot of canned and dried foods in the cellar in the basement.
A pang hit me. Even with her gone, she still takes care of me. Its as if I will never truly be independent. Not that I'm complaining, I'm grateful for what I have. There is enough food in the cellar to last me years, possibly a decade if I cut back.
The wind blew, throwing something at the side of the house. It hit with a thud. I shrugged it off, it wasn't uncommon for the gusts to pull up dead plants, throwing them about. I pulled the dish from the sink and put it on the dish rack. There was no need to rinse it as there was no soap. Sometimes I wonder if I should even wash the plate, it's not like I don't lick up every morsel on the thing. Washing was really only habit I'd picked up when I was younger.
The lights flickered making me jump. Then they went out all together. 'Guess I forgot to pay the bill' I thought, making a joke to myself. After a moment the lights resumed their faint glow. They didn't make much of a difference seeing as there were only two on the main floor. One in the kitchen and one in the hallway. They often flicker or go out completely, but they never stay out.
I put the dish in the cupboard I had gotten it from, closing it as I walk to the stairs. As I look at the door the bird pops into my head, I frown. It must have been a dream, there is no other way of explaining it. Nothing can live out there. I climb the stairs, to the painting room. Every night before I get in to bed I go to paint, touching up or adding to my piece of art. I turn the corner, swiveling around the banister. I look down the hall and notice the door is slightly ajar. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Fear crept in, fear of what I'm not sure, but it was definitely fear. I slid down the hall, careful to not step on the creaky boards. I put my shaking hand on the door handle, afraid to open it and see what was inside. I push the door open, barging in ready to face whatever may be there. To my unexpected surprise the room was empty, aside from my painting equipment and the canvas wall. I let out a sigh, exhaling a breath I didn't know was being held.
Like always I examined the canvas, peering over every detail to ensure everything met my standards. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the painting. No new cracks had formed in the wall, nothing had faded or chipped. Everything was in order. I pondered as to what I might add to the painting. It was pretty well done, but something didn't feel right, it wasn't complete. The palate lay on the ground where it had been left, the paint on it now dry. I picked it up and plucked a tube of black paint from the ground where the other colors sat. I walked over to the canvas and poured a pool of the paint onto the palette. The river needed something, it was barren. Before now this seemed appropriate. No creature would dare risk entering those rapids, not until now that is.
I take the paintbrush in my hand and dab it in the black paint, soaking up the dark substance. At the thinnest part of the river I begin to paint a form, an outline. The creature is given a long, arched back, spikes protruding from its spine. Its head is low, just its nose and eyes above the water. To long thin arms reach from the waters, long talon like nails attached to each finger. I continue creating the grotesque figure, adding shades of white and grey to highlight areas where the light would have hit the beast. I paint the eyes a dim red, with white rings circling the outer circle of the iris. The scalp of the creature was left bald and the skin on the arms dangled. After and hour of painting I step back admiring my work. It wasn't complete, but it was on its way.
From outside the room I heard a floorboard creek. I dismissed it, thinking nothing of it. The house isn't what one would exactly call new and noises were part of the package. It wasn't until another creek sounded, this time closer that my heart beat sped up. My childish instincts broke free and for an instant I considered an intruder, before I remembered that everyone was dead. Yet, besides that fact my fear grew. Another creek resounded throughout the house followed by a low scratching noise. From the other side of the door came a low growl, almost a hum.
My breath caught in my throat as a pair of long talons wrapped around the door. The leathery hand drug across the door, leaving long claw marks scratched across the frame. Slowly, it creaked open. I frantically looked around the room for something, anything to defend myself with; there was nothing. The grotesque appendage receded from the doorway leaving the deep grooves in the dull wood. Tears rimmed my eyes as I watched, afraid to blink.
A noise reverberated through the house, a clicking. Almost as a response to the noise more floorboards began to creak, and at a more rapid pace. I panicked and backed from the door as far as possible, knocking over paint in the process. The door burst open, wood cracking and splinters flying. I stifled a scream. Standing on the other side of the now destroyed room were three horrid beasts. Their backs were hunched with spines protruding from their backs. Red eyes bored into me.
