Short - But Not So Sweet - Stories...

The Sandman...

Through jagged mountain tops and crumbling cliff faces, in the midnight atmosphere, large storm clouds brewed above a glistening rock of diamonds and glowing branches, each a different blue and green.  Stars sparkled, bringing specs of light through the growing storm which swirled in the navy sky like a whirlpool in a rough see. A pink light radiated like a pulse from the centre of the glowing rock giving the whole area a nebulous feeling about it.

The world was particularly dark as the wind blew on the old house by the woods as a great crescent moon watched over its village. Inside a small window pane, a light flickered and danced: danced to the music of a young child playing with his toys in front of a roaring fire, whilst his mother sat sewing a masterpiece. It was a bitter night and with every gust that blew, the walls shuddered, but the boy was happy.

Just as it seemed nothing could stop the child’s creative tune, an antique clock with its pendulum, a crescent moon swaying from side to side, boomed a loud ringing chime, over and over again, as the man from inside appeared with his axe and cloak and beat the bell, with a squeaking tone to it.

With solemn eyes, the boy gazed up at the time piece and then to his mother, who had stopped rocking on her chair, dropped her sewing and had started over to her child, a heavy strain on her eyes. She walked over to the mantel piece, which was crooked and wonky, and collected a small candle, lit it, put it in a thin glass beaker and placed it in the boy’s palms.

He was shaking as the woman lead him to a large door on the opposite side of the room and opened it. It gave out a loud shrill and screech.

The boy stared into the world beyond the door; an aphotic spiralling staircase welcomed his first sight; cobwebs hiding in the corners, wind howling through the walls, a blue glow from the moon lighting up the holes and hallway.

He was not going in.

With longing eyes, the child once again gazed up at his mother who gave him a confident pat on the head, pushed him into the room and shut the door with a bang, sending the boy up into his own oblivion...

He had nowhere to go but up: Up the wooden staircase into the darkness beyond. The first step he took sent chills down his spine, the second third and fourth were ran. Then, with one last look at the door where his mother sat on the other side, he continued up the stairs, one at a time, until he reached the most centre stair which horrifyingly groaned, from the weight of his foot.

Forward and backward, he kept listening to that creak, then continued, shadows chasing him further into the black night.

Finally he reached the landing where a planked wood door awaited him like the flicker of a spark, in a pitch black room, and without a second thought he ran into his bedroom.

It was large and empty except for a small bed, with four posts, in the dead centre of the room which was highlighted by the shine of the arched moon peering through the bare windows. The floors and walls were wooden, joining together at the edges of the room.

Quickly the boy scurried over to the bed and hopped into it, leaving the candle on a small table beside it, and covered his eyes with the cover. Slowly his eyes popped out from under the duvet and peered anxiously around for a few seconds, before he rolled over and fell into a deep slumber. The child tossed and turned in his sleep, becoming very restless and fidgety, his eyes fluttering beneath they’re lids.

Just as he calmed and fell restful the storm outside grew just a bit stronger and then, out of nowhere, the window burst open with a loud bang, abruptly waking the boy, making him sit up and stare at the now uninhibited night sky, beyond his casement. He trembled from the cool air that now blew onto his cheeks, and from the thought that something may be happening, after all, since when do locked windows open all by themselves?