Demon Stories: Vol. 2

Ophelia: Attic Family, 1954, USA

Ophelia

Attic Family

1954, USA

Cold like embers on skin, cobwebbed and black, wrapped in the minute shreds. Hanging here, suspended as a wraith in the moonlit dark. There is a small hornets' nest above the open window, long forgotten and as a pathway for muted creatures.

I hear them downstairs. In the valley there are small noises. These below fill the quiet with midnight chatter, a party.

Hating them, but loving them. Loving them, needing them. Needing to stay here and listen to them. Spiders will crawl around my body, the hornets will trace their little dances. The silk will wrap me more, until one cannot see my face.

Laughter rings out, and there's clattering. Someone with heavy boots walking just underneath me. The father. The jolly one who always drinks too much. Boisterous, younger voice than his age. Everyone else in this tiny village sleeps, all six houses, but for one. This one.

The mother is making liquid sounds, asking if anyone wants more wine. I can taste it, dry maybe, with a hint of fruit. The smells become whole on my parched, porcelaine tongue.

The hunger has left, but the thirst remains. A wish, one which would have been extinguished long ago all the same. Still, it lingers.

Padding steps, shuffling little feet. A small voice joins them, inquisitive and scared. The laughter increases, the joy. Music rings out louder, no conscience for others. More padding feet, more laughter.

There is a train, one that comes every night on those tracks by the house. Rumbling freight, scaring the children always. Perhaps they have heard this. Or maybe it was the noise of the party. Either way, the children come running down the steps, one by one.

It sounds familiar. The laughter sounds familiar. Their happiness. The loving mother. I must listen here, close my eyes and drown out all but their joy. Drown out this set pressure inside my still chest, feeling the stale air despite the crisp breeze of the starlit Winter night.

Those parties they have. Those family dinners. The mother singing a song with the radio. The children complaining and crying. The sounds of a happy house. 

They are always happy here, ever since the house was built too many years ago. Built by these tracks where I used to travel with my family, on the land which holds two of their bodies. On top of my sorrow, where I cannot leave.