An Invitation

Winslow arrived at the house. It was obscured from his vision by the fog so well, he could hardly see it. The rural house sat by a lake, and was so rickety it was a miracle it was still inhabited. But that was elders for you; never wanting to leave their ancient homes.

Winslow shuffled up to the door, wrapping his coat tighter around him against the cold, and knocked of the rotting aspen door. After waiting for several long moments, he realised his father must have not come back from wherever he was yet.
So he decided to go for a walk.

It was strange that his father had invited him, as he and his father did not get along very well. So much so that Winslow had begun to think his father held feelings of hate towards him. It had all started a few years ago when Winslow's mother had died. Her body had been found drifting in the lake. His father had become immersed in a strange state of grief, acting with extreme hostility towards everyone who tried to talk to him. Eventually Winslow left the senile old man to his reclusive life, like an animal in its lair. From then on, contact was in a state of perpetual non-existence, at least up until earlier that day, when he had received a letter that left him baffled, inviting him to stay with his father. Not wanting to seem impolite, he accepted.

As he strolled down the path that surrounded the lake, he noticed how oddly silent it was for the countryside... save for a gentle humming. He began to walk in a different direction, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. The humming continued, not getting louder, nor quieter. It came from everywhere, until... as mystically as it began, it stopped. In fact, it stopped in such a way, he began to wonder whether it had been there at all, or if it had just been his mind playing tricks on him. He dismissed it and headed back to the house. Only, he had forgotten which way he came from. He had been following the path, but the singing had led him astray. If there had been singing?

Eventually, he found the long driveway. Once he made his way back to the house, he tried knocking on the door yet again, but to no avail. He leered at the door, envisioning the cadaverous old man locking him out in the cold with a malignant grin. He let himself into the old abode, remembering the key that was kept under the loose plank on the porch. He set himself up in his old room, not minding the vermin that ran loose through the room. Despite being accustomed to living in a town house that was well looked after by an able charwoman, due to being exhausted from a day of traveling, he slept like the dead. He hoped to look around and find out what his father wanted on the morrow.

  When he woke the next morning, he was feeling less than buoyant at the thought of seeing his father again. He still recalled the cold, baleful look in his eyes that sent many a tremor down his spine. Winslow got dressed, and then began searching the old household, only to find it devoid of human life, the house's only habitants being rats, cockroaches, and other sorts of nasty's.

He decided that his father must have gone for a walk, and that he must find him. It was the only logical assumption, for as fiendish as his father was, he indubitably would never have left behind the pictures of his wife if he had moved, and Winslow had not been invited to a funeral. So he set out.

Once again, he went down the path, turning his head left and right, looking for his lonesome relative, when he heard it. The humming. It came from everywhere, and yet nowhere, and was only there if he listened carefully, and even then, he wasn't sure if it was there. He wandered around, hoping he would find the source. As he began to get closer to the lake, it intensified, and became singing. He began to slowly jog towards the lake, looking for the owner of the voice.

Eventually, he got to the edge of the lake, where the peal of notes assailed his ears in magnificent harmony! In the middle of the lake, on a rock, there sat a figure, just out of sight. He felt like he was missing something, however, similar to standing outside the doors to an opera, he had not yet been able to appreciate the true voice in all of its glory. Without thinking, he strode forth uni the icy water, his muscles seizing up in protest. However he kept pushing towards the voice that sounded so familiar and yet he had never heard it before. Then he felt a tug at his coat sleeve. Lifting his sodden arm, he glanced down, only to see a skeletal, no, a SKELETON ARM GRIPPING HIS COAT. Winslow let out an exclamation of terror, causing the figure to turn toward him, and leap off of the rock. Mere moments later, he was met with a ghastly sight. A shrivelled woman burst out of the water, giving out a shrill shriek! Her twisted, rotting fingernails were stained a ruddy colour, along with her sharp teeth! The eyes of this woman were long gone, in there place, rotting, empty sockets! She wrapped her corpse-like fingers around his throat, shrieking and shouting! Winslow himself began to shout, thrashing at the water! But he could do nothing against her powerful arms, for small as they were, they contained inhuman strength! As he began to fade away, he heard a familiar voice, forgotten by the years whisper to him:
"It was his fault"

What a family reunion.