I wrote this just now, I like being over tired, it gets me writing *nods*. I did it for fun, if I get placed, I'll give the premium membership to someone deserving.
HECTOR'S HOUSE
My brother and I had grown up together in a vast manor which, for generations, had belonged to my noble family. It had a great many rooms, most of which we did not need nor use, and it served as a wonderful place to be raised. Lestor and I had always been very close. Our home was so far away from town that we scarcely had a chance to make friends, and so not only were we brothers, but we were also best friends. The manor, being so very ancient, also possessed a large crypt in which was buried all the bones of my ancestors. It was an attractive place, although morbid, and my parents would often take us down there to lay fresh flowers and wreaths on the many graves.
Eventually our parents passed away, and Lestor and I then lived alone. We lived on though, as happily and healthily as ever we had done. Our family had always been a wealthy one, and Lestor and I had inherited agreat amount of money at our parent’s passing, so there was no requirement for either of us to seek work.
However, although I was content in living this way, Lestor soon became bored, and frequently rode into town to seek employment. He soon found work, and was often away, leaving me at home on my lonesome. Yet still, I was content, and went about my days tending to and enjoying the gardens, watching the fish in the pond, and sometimes going hunting alone in the hills that surrounded the area.
One day, Lestor returned home accompanied by a woman. He told me he had met her through a friend at work, and that they were in love. Her name was Meread, and right from the first moment I laid my eyes on her, I knew there was something about her that I did not like. I could not think what it was. Perhaps it was something in her appearance. She had wild, curly dark hair, dark eyes, high set cheek bones and a well built figure. No, it was not her appearance. It was not her obnoxiously loud voice either, although I did shudder whenever she spoke. It was not the way she dressed, she had the look of any ordinary woman. No it was something that I could sense.
The more time she spent in our house, eating our food, drinking our wine, sleeping in my brother’s bed, reading our books, the more I could feel it, and the more I grew to detest her. I stopped going out. I no longer went hunting, nor tended the gardens or watched the fish. I stayed indoors and kept to myself, reading books from our grand library to distract myself from the trials of daily life with her around. My brother detected my dislike for the woman, although I did not at first voice my opinions of her. Until one day, Lestor announced to me that he and Meread were getting married. I could not pretend to be happy for him. At length, I told him of my suspicions.
“Lestor, my dear brother, I pray you do not! That woman, she is, I fear, a witch!”. Lestor had looked at me blankly as if in disbelief that I could had thought such a thing. How did he not see it too, when it was so obvious?
“That’s madness, Hector. Meread is a wonderful woman and I love her. Soon she will be my wife”.
“I know it to be so!” I cried, but Lestor said no more. he simply shook his head and walked away. Infact, he did not speak to me all that day. The wedding was planned for a few weeks after that, and in that time my suspicions grew. I did not once leave the property, I could feel myself deteriorating because of it, and she would often ask me why, not out of concern for my health, but because she was prying. I would give her no answer, and she too would shake her head and leave me alone. I could tell that Meread knew that I knew her secret. She had my brother bewitched, and was going to take him away from me. I could not accept it, and yet there was naught I could do about it. I could tell from the sideways looks she always gave me, I could hear evil in her laughter and see wickedness in her smile.
I did not attend the wedding, and my brother resented me for it.
Some twenty-three years ago now, or so I assume it to be, my brother and his wicked wife had left the house. The last words Meread ever said to me, and she did hiss them as she walked out the door, were,
“I swear, you’ll die if you ever leave this house!”.
At first I thought it had been a statement, no more than that. A presumption, almost a mockery, for I was so known for rarely leaving the property or even going outside. Although, the more I thought on it, I feared, what if she really was a witch? What if I had been right in presuming that? What if she really was a witch, and that had been a spell? This I sat for some hours musing over, fearfully rocking back and forth, I remember. If it had been a spell, then that meant that should I ever leave this house, then I would die. Yes, that’s what it meant. It was a curse, left by a witch who hated me. I knew it to be, and had been foolish in ever considering otherwise.
So I became fearful, and bound myself even further to my home, and swore that I would never leave it again, for fear of death.
Many years passed after that. Perhaps fifteen or more, I could only guess, really. I would judge by the passing of the seasons through the windows. But as those windows became dimmer, dustier, and more covered in ivy outside, it became far more difficult to see through them, to see what season it was, or indeed if it were even morning or evening. I had aged too, I could see it in my reflection. It mattered not, for no one really ever saw me, but my hair had quickly become grey, my eyes had dark rings beneath them, my face had become lined and was sagging, and even my fingernails were long and yellow. I still wore fine clothes though, for if you recall, I possessed a great wealth. Velvet was my preference, and a maroon coloured velvet jacket became my most beloved item. I had many fine clothes for going out, still in my wardrobe, but they lay untouched, and exactly as they were the last time I had worn them. The house had aged aswell, and the corners of every room were the permanent home of the cobwebs which were strung up there, dust lay on most things, wallpaper had begun to peel itself away from the wall, and all the silver desperately needed a polish.
I had pushed the memory of Meread to the back of my mind, to comfort myself. I was entirely alone this whole time, for I had no friends who chose to visit me, I suppose my home was rather out of the way, and only every so often a man or woman would appear at my door with my usual provisions that I ordered from town, or to request one thing or another. I had no other living relatives that I knew of. No one, save for my brother. I had not forgotten him, though I thought of him rarely.
However, one day just as I was finishing off my afternoon tea, the knell of my doorbell rang around the entrance hall. I heard it, but was unsure if I had heard it correctly. I waited a few moments more, and it came again. Somewhat startled, I rose, set down my teacup, and started towards the door. I opened it very slowly, tilting my head so that one eye could see through the thin crack between the door and the frame, and the other yet concealed. At first I thought I was imagining who I saw. My heart bestilled a moment, and I gasped.
It was Meread. Although she had aged slightly, she was still the same, wild looking, beastly woman I had known her as. I felt ill to my stomach as I opened wider the door, so much so that I clutched at my throat for fear of choking. Meread was all dressed in black, from head to toe. She wore a long dress, and a dark veil partially concealed her face. I noticed then that she was not alone, but had been so startled at seeing her that I had not at once realised. In the driveway behind her was parked a long hearse, drawn by two horses, steam rising from their noses in the cool air as they jostled. There were several men moving around the hearse. I could see that it was autumn, the ground outside was littered with dead leaves.
“Meread” I addressed her. It had been so long since I had spoken that my voice was little more than a croak.
“Hector” she replied brusquely, tipping her head slightly.
“For what reason have you come?” I asked of her. I could not force myself to sound polite, I detesed the woman, “Where is my brother?”.
She turned and glanced behind her momentarily before turning back to face me.
“He is in the hearse” she stated blandly. I said nothing.
The men behind her were sliding something out from the hearse; a coffin. There were four of them carrying it, and I watched as they walked towards my door.
“He’s dead” Meread said pointedly, as if I had not realised.
Although I had hardly thought of Lestor for some time, and not really cared what he and his wife were doing with their lives, learning of his death struck my heart with pain. Apparenlty he had succumbed to a fever, but before his death, he had requested that he be buried in the crypt of his old house. So I showed the four men with the coffin in, and reluctantly, allowed Meread to enter too. I did not take my eyes off her the entire time as I lead the four gentlemen to the crypt. A fever, she said, as if I would believe such utter tripe. She had tired of him, and murdered him with her black magic, I knew it.
Although I had visited often as a child, I had not been into the crypt for many years. The handle was stiff as i twisted it, and the door creaked loudly as I pushed it open. I lead them down the darkened stairscase, carrying before me a small saucer candlestick which dimly lit the way. The crypt was almost pitch black, the only light entering through a tiny, barred widow at the far end of the place. It had a high vaulted ceiling and was all built from stone, quite different to the rest of the manor, which had at one time been quite opulent. With a wave of my hand I directed the four gentlemen to an empty sepulchre, one which my brother had had built for himself at a young age. I had one waiting for me too, right next to his. It was grim to behold these two sepulchres, knowing that one of the two was about to be filled, but I knew that I was safe as long as I never left my house.
At length, Lestor was buried. My emotions were mixed as this was done, and yet all the while I was distracted by my seething hatred for Meread, who stood before the sepulchre dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I knew she was not crying, I could tell that she was not sad that Lestor was dead. Still I stared at her.
The four gentlemen thanked me for my assistance as they headed back out the front door towards the hearse. As Meread made to leave, I had to say something to her. This witch had put a curse on me, after all. If I was already condemned, then there could be no further harm in voicing my thoughts to her.
“I know what you are. I know you murdered Lestor” I snarled at her in my croak of a voice, “How dare you enter here, begone you vile woman, and don’t you ever return!”. She looked shocked to hear this, but I knew that it was shock that someone could be so clever as to discover her secret.
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing! You strange old man, I have no desire to ever return here!” she cried. Oh how I hated that obnoxiously loud voice of her’s, which as always, made me shudder.
“Begone!” I cried, “Lie you might, but I can see the truth of it”.
She regarded me for a moment, her dark eyes gleaming through the veil. Upon her countenance was a look that could only be described as disgust.
“You truly are mad! If you ever leave this house, I swear they will take you away!” and just as last time, she slammed the door and disappeared. Once more I pondered her words. I sat in my chair and stared for a good few hours at the empty, ash-filled fireplace.
Who would take me away? This I poured over, and then I realised.
If I left, I would die. Then who would take me away, Angels, Demons? Yes, that was it, the Demons would come and take me away. Demons would claim my soul and take it to Hell to torture it for all eternity. It was another curse. Damn her!
I leapt to my feet, and cursed my brother for not outliving that evil old bat.
That, however, was some time ago now. The years continued to pass, no differently to how they did before. Not once did I venture down into the crypt to revisit Lestor’s grave.
It had been some years since I had thought of her. Perhaps now, because it was Hallowe'en evening, the memory of her was drawn into the front of my conciousness. Even after all those years, after her absence, the mere thought of her still sent a cold shiver down my spine. I knew what time of year it was. Once I thought I had heard someone at my door, but I opened it to find no one there. I saw once more the dead leaves scattered on the ground, and realised it was autumn. At the same time, I saw part of my once beautiful garden. It had been grand, a sea of different coloured flowers, a wall of vibrant rose bushes, a quaint little pond, and a few handsome trees dotted about. As I gazed upon it now, it had most certainly lost all of it’s former splendour. Everything was grey and dead. There were no flowers, just patches of long, dry grass, and everything was overgrown with dead brambles. The rose bushes had become a tangle of twigs, the trees were all gnarled, skeletal and leafless, and the pond was empty. This was not due to the season, it was from neglect. Part of me wished to go and tend it, to restore it’s former beauty, but I dared not, for fear that the curse would take ahold. Damn that woman, I thought, for she was denying me of the things I loved the most. However, I knew I had no choice, and remained, as always, locked up inside my old, dusty house.
Hallowe'en was a day for witches, when the veil between the living and the dead was at it’s thinnest. It was a day for them to work their strange magic, and I shuddered once more when I thought what sort of evil spells might be being spun by Meread at that very moment.
Evening wrapped it’s shroud of darkness around my house, and soon I had my fire going, an oil lamp lit, and a few candles hither and thither. I sat in my chair, wearing an old grey shirt and over it, my favourite maroon jacket. My beslippered feet were resting upon a foot stool, I had a steaming cup of tea on my table and a pipe full of fresh tobacco waiting for me, and yet my mind was far from being at ease. I was reading a book, possibly one that I had read before but forgotten about, although I could scarcely concentrate on it.
It was Hallowe’en, I knew it was, and normally the day meant nothing to me. So why was this knowledge affecting me so, why now? It came and went every year and not once did I ever care, but tonight felt different. Tonight there was something in the air, and although I knew myself to be alone as always, I could not help but feel as though I was being watched. Infact, several times I removed my gaze from the book to glance about the room, half expecting to see someone standing behind me. I tried to ignore this feeling, and yet I was so strangely uncomfortable. When one is fearful, their senses become more astute, and I am sure that mine did, for I picked up on every sound, every slight breeze, and jumped every time the fire crackled loudly. At my great age, having even fully functional senses is quite the achievement. I tried settling myself, and quelling this disquietude by forcing a tiny smile on my face as I sipped at my tea. Soon the cup was empty, and the feeling remained. I took up the tobacco pipe and lit it. I puffed on it slowly as I watched the flames in the fire gradually shrink, the blue smoke swirling around my head.
Then, I heard a noise. Like a banging, coming from somewhere in my house. I sat up very straight, which my back complained at, but the sudden panic forced me to ignore the ache. I strained to hear, thinking that I might have imagined it. After several minutes of listening to silence, I began to think I had imagined it - until I heard it again. I could hear something, the sound of movement. I was alone, I always was, I had been for twenty-three years, there was no one else here. This I told myself for the purpose of comfort, but none came. I puffed more rapidly on the pipe, the smoke wafting out in thick balls. I stood and took up my cane with my other hand. I did somewhat require the thing for walking, but, I thought wildly, if there was something that I needed to fend off, then it would be suitable for that purpose too. Slowly and carefully I walked across the worn down carpet towards the door of the sitting room. Beyond was the entrance hall, which was darkened. Slowly, very, very slowly, I leaned over and put my head out the door. All was darkness and stillness. Then I heard it again, movement. It sounded like a scraping, like rock on rock. I raised an eyebrow as I tried to determine what that could be caused by. Yet that feeling of disquiet, that anxiety was still within me, and I dared not go any further to find out.
I listened hard and stood completely stationary. Then suddenly, to my horror, I heard a new sound, one that was unmistakably the sound of footsteps. My heart skipped a beat and suddenly I became very aware of how heavily it was pounding in my chest, I could even hear it. I groaned and stumbled backwards, catching myself with the cane. I could hear it distinctly now, several pairs of light footsteps, moving very slowly up what seemed to be a flight of stairs. I moved quickly back towards my chair, set down the pipe, and took up instead a small saucer candle stick from atop a cabinet. It’s flickering aura did little to illuminate the entrance hall as I daringly returned there. I felt extremely vulnerable as I very slowly stepped of the sitting room door, and brought the whole of my person into the darkened entrance hall. Cane in one hand, candle in the other, I stood before the front door, staring into the darkness of the hallways beyond. The footsteps had stopped, and again I questioned myself, had I ever heard them, or was it my imagination? All was silence for a few moments, and then -
There came the loud, low creaking of a door being slowly swung open. My heart began to race and my breathing became rapid. Although it had been some time since I’d heard it, many years since I had been there, I knew that that was unmistakably the sound of the crypt door. I held the candle up before me to better light the room, and it was then that I noticed just how vigorously my hand was shaking. My cane too was quivering beneath me. There came no more sound, but something far stranger alerted me. It was getting darker. The fire in the sitting room was reduced to embers, and the oil lamp and the other candles were all flickering, as if someone were breathing on them all at the same time. I watched as they all snuffed at once, tiny puffs of smoke rising from each one. The candle in my hand wobbled violently, now being the only light in the whole house, it blazed like a beacon in the dark hall. My breathing became harder and my heart pounded on as my eyes darted about the room, searching for a sign of movement. In an instant, the candle snuffed itself, and I was plunged into total darkness.
It was then that I saw them. In every doorway, of which there were about six including the one through which I had just come, was a black, hooded figure. In their hands they appeared to be holding a mysterious red light, which illuminated their faces. They were skeletons, completely devoid of any flesh or features. Their hands were the same. They stood there, unmoving, glowing dimly red and shrouded in their black cloaks. I panicked, what was I to do? What were the skeletons, and why had they come?
Were they Demons, come to collect my soul and take it to Hell? Were they the messengers of the Devil, come to deliver an omen of ill-fate? Were they the dead arisen for some sinister purpose? I did not want to know, I wanted to get away. What I did know though, was that this had something to do with her. That evil witch Meread had placed an enchantment on the crypt the day she had been in there, I knew it. Damn her! She had hated me as I had hated her, and this was how she was acting upon that hatred. Suddenly, the skeletons advanced. They stepped out of their doorways and came further into the entrance hall. Fear gripped me. I stumbled and twisted around, not knowing which way to run, there were so many of them. I cried out, but they continued to move forward. I held my cane at the ready, but how does one fend off the risen dead?
I turned around completely and found myself facing the front door of my house. It was the only escape from this hall, and yet I had not walked through it for twenty-three years. If that witch could raise the dead to reap souls, for I was almost certain that that was why the skeletons were there, then her other curses would work aswell.
My mind exploded with terror and frightening thoughts as I placed my hand upon the door handle. I turned my head over my shoulder, yes, the skeletons were still there, glowing red, their empty eyes staring at me as they moved ever closer. They were only a few feet away now. I screwed up my eyes, groaned, twisted the old door handle, and pushed the door open. In one great stride, with some aid from my cane, I was outside. I slammed the door behind me and dahsed as quickly as I could towards the dead garden. I looked up, panic still racing through me. A full moon hung in the star-studded sky. I had almost forgotten it, it had been so long since I had seen it. I was outside. I had left my house. Meread’s words, her curses, returned to my mind.
“I swear, you’ll die if you ever leave this house!” rang around my head as if it had only just been shouted at me, “You truly are mad! If you ever leave this house, I swear they will take you away!” . The words rang out, over and over in my mind, louder and louder, crossing over eachother until they no longer made sense. I felt dizzy, the world was spinning, my heart pounded harder still, I cried out a long, agonised cry into the night. I fell to my knees, my cane collapsing into the brambles beside me. The Demons were coming to take me away, to claim my soul and take it to Hell. I clutched at my chest. Damn her! I knew that I would die if I ever left my house.
-Freyja MacLeod (CherryAdvocaat)
