Stories and Poems

Quoting Death

Landing with a soft thud, I bent over to pick up my bag with my pencils and sketch book from where I had thrown it over the wrought iron gate. I stood up again and took in my surroundings as everything looked so different from this side of the gate.

The large oak trees that lined the small path provided shelter but I could get a glimpse of the large grey clouds rolling lazily across the sky. Gravel crunching under foot, I looked up at the intimidating house that had filled my imagination for months. The house was abandoned; the wood was rotting away. The roof was covered in holes and the garden was overgrown, thick with thorns. 

This didn't scared me. It wasn't the black birds flying in and out of the holes in the side of the house or the way tiles from the roof lay in the tall grasses. No, it was the windows that scared me. The windows that had no glass. They stared down at you, unrelentless and disturbing in their ferocity. A single thought came to my mind, if looks could kill. Despite their warning I walked through the dark gaping mouth of the monster and entered hell.

The house was so unnaturally cold that it penetrated my deepest bones and froze my heart. The wind rustled through the jagged teeth of glass that protruded from the windows. Carefully, I walked through the house noticing every detail of its dilapidated interior. 

A crunching sound came from under my thickly soled boots. Beneath my feet, amongst the dry leaves, were pages that had been ripped out of books. Hundreds of pages from hundreds of books littered the floor.

I bent down and picked one up. It had red pen on it, circling one sentence halfway down the page that read, The gates of hell are open night and day; smooth the decent, and easy is the way. I shuddered at the ominous quote and dropped the page yet my curiosity won and I picked up another.

This one said, Have a look around, my pretty, we are surrounded by Death in all forms- just the two of us are still alive-, except the word 'two' had been scored out, in its place was written 'one'. A slight wind rustled the pages behind me. I dropped the page and backed up against the wall. Scared and confused, I ran to the stairs and climbed, panting with fright.

Up here was clear of leaves but book covers had been stacked up against the ruined walls, pages strewn across the splintering wood. I picked up another page that was covered in pen, curiosity filling me. The first highlighted quote, I am haunted by humans, inexplicably frightened me and the second, Even death has a heart, even more so. I pocketed this page and looked around, focusing on my task. Seeing nothing that could persuade my head to follow my heart and sketch, I climbed the rickety stairs, flicking my torch on, up into the pitch black of the attic.

I was shocked. The beam from my torch illuminated shapes that I could not make out. I found a light switch; halfheartedly and not expecting it to work, I flicked it on and immediately soft, golden light filled the room well enough that I turned my torch off. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was perfectly preserved.

It was not unlike a beautiful dining room I had recently seen when I visited a grand old house in the country. Pale blue paper lined the walls on which gold pictures hung portraying rich people in lush places. In the middle sat an antique dining table. On it rested dinner laid out for four. The only thing that lay out of place was an old music box that lay on the floor. 

I opened it and soon soft, haunting music flowed around me. I heard the chatter of people and the fine chink of cutlery against china plates. I closed my eyes as the music rose as the sounds of the imaginary evening filled the room. 

A sudden bang brought me out of my trance. One of the chairs that had stood perfectly around the table was on its side on the floor. A shatter from behind me made me turn quickly as the room plunged into darkness. A lamp had fallen to the floor and the bulb had broken, glass lying in the thick carpet. I stood frozen in fear as I heard the unmistakable sounds of footprints treading on the broken glass. 

Fear clawed at my heels as I ran back down the stairs. I didn't stop running until I was out of the house. It was only then did I stop and look behind me. I bent over, panting. Why didn't I turn around when I had the chance?