Short Stories

Unspeakable

N/A There was a lot of trouble writing this story. I hit a point where I was really frustrated because I had accidentally deleted the entire story when I had one more paragraph to write. Meaning I had to rewrite the entire story from scratch again. I was really upset for a while because I had been really proud of the original. This one isn't the same as the original, but it's not horrible. I hope you still enjoy it though.

(I know this story is very far in the past and some of it won't make sense according to timelines, but that's not the point. I choose the dates for a certain reason. So, some things will not make sense for the time period it is in.)

The pull in the chest can feel physical as if something inside is pulling towards something else with passion. The brain can not process the feeling, something new is in control.  

March 6, 1379. The present. The time that will soon become the past. The night no one will forget. The night everything ends... at least for now.

Over the last thirteen years, disappearances have occurred and no details have been found. A boy has lived in the same town for fifteen years of his life. The disappearances have always intrigued him. He has read everything and heard every story he could. Nothing connected or made any sense.

A house on the corner of the town, mold built up, wood nailed into the broken walls. Glass shattered and the yard hasn't seen a day of water. This house gave him a pull every time he walked past. 

No one goes near the house and no one ever will.

***

The night was cold, the boy lay shivering on his make-shift bed. His eyes shut at will, trying to get some rest. Toes curled, clothes pulled tight. No light except for the natural lighting from the moon. His parents crying in the other room, but that does not catch his attention. Whispers from the wind swirl around him. The whispers calling out to him, from somewhere near. A chill goes down his spine.

The dirt road is bare, candlelight no longer came from house windows. People in their homes, with their families, instead of out on the road. The boy knows the direction to go in, but not the destination. His feet drag behind him. His face red from the cold. His nightclothes hung loosely on his figure. Trees, houses, fields go by. Then he stops. Not moving, his feet planted for a moment. A house sits on his right. The one house everyone avoids, the house no one believes has a resident. Maybe one day, people will have a change in thought.

Dragging one foot in front of the other, the yellow grass crunches beneath his bare feet. The door creaks open before he reaches the steps. One creak after another, he goes through the doorway, not bothering to look around, and heads upstairs immediately.  Every door closed or broken, he passes each one without regard. Getting to the end of the corridor he halts to a stop.

The last door in the hallway barely held onto the hinges, ready to collapse at any minute. The creaky floorboards in the room were completely covered, not one piece of wood to be seen. Missing people reports litter the ground sticking to one another as if there was glue on each. There were twelve picture frames hung on the wall by bent nails and ripped wallpaper. Each photo contained a different person and each one looked like one of the missing people. The frames barely held together with the glass shattered on the floor. Mold could be seen all around, the ceiling full of it, ready to collapse on itself. The corner of the room, the farthest from the door had poor lighting making it hard to see. A chair sat in the dark, rocking slightly with a creak every once in a while. A woman sat there facing the broken window. The wind caused the curtains to blow out with the window panes chipped and carved with names. The tip of a paper could be seen in her hands which have been settled in her lap. The boy's presence unknown to her or she simply did not mind him there. With his footsteps light and cautious, he made his way over to the woman. Beginning to face her, he realized how her features were not all that usual. He was still able to recognize the woman as the first missing person to be reported. Mrs. Veronica Rose. 

Mrs. Veronica Rose went missing the night of June 6, 1366. The boy remembers hearing about her disappearance. There was no trace to anything as to what happened that night. It is like she just got up and left, never to be seen or heard from again. And over the last 13 years, every single missing person had the same disappearance. 

The boy looks over her gruesome appearance. Although her features are unusual, the boy seems to have seen it before. The unspeakable mask she wears would be hard on a human's eye. Mrs. Veronica has her skin peeling in various directions, making it easy to see the under skin and muscle. Her white nightgown clung loosely to her body.  Her teeth chipped and cracked, most of them gone already. The jaw hung dangerously low, in a shocking matter, it seemed broken. The skin pigment has faded to an ungodly white, making any type of bruising impossible to see. Even with her jaw low, the tips of her lips were quirked up into a forced smile, almost exposing her cheekbones. Thick, black stitches cover her mouth to keep her smile permanent, it seemed to be the main thing holding her jaw to her head. The stitching has been made into x's along her mouth, reminding the boy of his sister's dollies.  Her stretched eyes make it hard to not notice the blood seeping from them as if she were crying. The eyes were one color, white. Not another color evident from his distance. The strands of hair she had left, holding onto her scalp for dear life.

His eyes go down to her tensed, boney hands. Mrs. Veronica's nails are either ripped off or chipped and are in the process of falling off. He sees her look down at the paper and then back up at him, slowly blinking. He cautiously takes the folded paper from her.  Unfolding the old paper, he reads the words before him:

MISSING PERSON:

ALEXANDER GLEMIOLD

15-YEAR-OLD BOY

LAST SEEN IN BLANDON TOWN AT NIGHT WITH HIS FAMILY, THE GLEMIOLD'S

LAST DATE SEEN: FEBRUARY 13, 1378

A shiver down his spine, causes him to look up. The chair before him still rocking steadily, but Mrs. Veronica was nowhere to be seen. The paper previously in his hands, gone as well. His eyes wander the room once again, shadows in every corner. Thirteen picture frames hung on the wall, a mirror placed crookedly to its right. The door now perfectly aligned with the frame, shut closed and tight. He places one foot in front of the other, walking towards the newly placed mirror. His self reflects back at him, he looks different than before. A gust of wind goes behind him, with the sound of a giggling girl running by. She didn't appear in the glass in front of him, but he refused to look back. Twelve faces stare at him through the mirror, each with the same unspeakable mask, but everyone has a unique touch. The bodies before him vary, different genders, ages, and features. Not one originally same from the last, the mask making them one.

Nails dig into his shoulder, he sees Mrs. Veronica Rose next to him. Staring, all of them were staring. Waiting for something. The reflection of himself looked nothing of the boy in the paper. Mr. Alexander Glemiold had an unspeakable mask of his own.

Mr. Glemiold was the last victim of the disappearances. 

All 13 cases remain unsolved.