The Vault

4.

Candlelight flickered gently as Abraham stared down at the blank page before him. His hand shook as gingerly as the flame itself, and a small drop of ink fell from the nib of his expensive pen. With a sigh, he placed it back into the ink pot on his desk, and slumped his tired head into his hands.

Rubbing the thinning brown hair on his head back and forth, he looked out the window with weary eyes. The long and gangly collection of branches, trees, shrubs and vines rocked back and forth like a mass of shadowy limbs. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he arose from his chair and walked towards the window, pressing his fingers on the pane and closing his eyes.

The attempt to clear his mind was futile, and his heavy eyelids reopened, revealing his brown pupils. With a squint he tried to make something out in the dark garden. The wind captured him with gentle whispers against the pane.

"Abraham..." a gentle voice bounced against the window.

His eyes widened with fear before he curiously leaned forward to the cold panel, and squinted once more.

Somewhere, amongst the tangled web of overgrown flora, he saw a pale, greyed, slender arm unfurl towards him from it's shadowy cuff. The gentle whispers of wind once more rocked softly against the window pane. "Abraham..." It whispered, but as quickly as it had all happened, the elegant arm was consumed, and it vanished into the sinew of grassy limbs around it.

Abraham stepped away from the window in confusion, gently knocking the table he wrote at, and causing the candle to jump a little. The dim light of the library bounced into the dark corners that never saw light.

Rather weakly, he unscrewed the lid of his whisky, and gulped a few swigs back before rubbing his creased brow. He eyed the blank sheet of paper sitting on his desk, but his thought process was once again interrupted when his face turned a lighter shade of pale.

A small breeze of wind echoed through the house... "Abraham..." It whispered.

Trying to steady his hands, he picked up the small candle from his desk and gripped it tightly. The candle could barely pierce the intense dark of the house after its relentless battle to survive the long hours Abraham had spent searching for creative impulse.

A cold drop of sweat trickled from his brow as he began edging towards the exit of the library. The light slowly moved away from the window, leaving the spindly mass of limbs dancing in the dark, and as he moved away, the last flicker of light lit up the beckoning grey limb from the centre of the mass. Only this time it went unnoticed.

He peered out into the silent, empty hallway. The wind outside gently brushed against the old wooden front door, causing a small creaking sound from the rusted bolts. Nothing stirred in the kitchen, and Abraham drew a breath of relief. "Alice is right, perhaps I do need to lay off the alcohol," he thought with a rye smile at himself for being so childish.

As he turned back into the library to continue his effort to work, he heard an odd creak come from behind him. His brow furrowed once more, and he peaked his head into the empty hallway.

Another gentle breeze echoed towards him, rattling a few trinkets inside the kitchen. It seemed no matter how much work they did on the house, it would not stop that infernal wind getting in.

Just as he turned once more to continue his work, another gust came crawling towards him from the hallway. "Abraham..."

Now there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard this woman's voice clear as day, clear as if there was a person there with him in the relentless dark inside the halls. The wind had been nagging away at him over the recent nights he spent, and it seemed it was finally ready to reveal itself.

Slowly creeping down the hallway, each hair on his neck stood upright as he braced himself. Another small breeze came, this time even quieter than the last, "Abraham..." it whispered.

Slower still, he inched down the hallway, his feet barely lifting off the ground as he shuffled forward. It came again, this time the wind quieter than ever before, it seemed as if the voice itself was talking to him.

Relying on instinct, he stopped a way down the hall, and turned as slow as the hour hand on a clock moves. His stale, alcohol-smelling breath hit the damp, slightly peeling red paint in front of him.

In the dull light of his candle, he put his shaking hand forward... guiding it to the cold wall directly in front. With the slightest, gentlest, of touches from his fingertips, a violent, hissing voice came blaring at him.

"ABRAHAM!" It screamed.

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