A story

Mar 11, 2010, 7:14 PM |

It's been quite a while sense I last wrote a story; so compair contrast, do whatever you want. I want this to be something like Lovecraft, any helpful comments would be appreciated. Also, if I post this before I actually finish it; feel free to think out loud who lives in the house; I will tell who it is if you get the right answer, but only then (I'll give you a hint, it's not one of the pre-given answers)


The year is 1925.

Upon a setting sun lays a dark house on a hill. The molding windows have half fallen out, past the prime and into the rot of age. The wooden planks slide along the carefully constructed wall, bending under the weight of time. Aside from the mold that has slowly crept up the walls, there is no life in it's yard. The only tree has been knotted with time. The dark bark appears to have been scorched long ago, but returned from the dead to carry out it's cursed life. The grass along the lawn have wilted long ago; but curiously there is not a single weed on the entire plain.

There are stories told along the campfires of children that tell of the house; it is said to be the house is only there due to a curse that had been placed there by a necromancer fearful of death, so he made a pact with the devil, to live so long as the house stands on that hill, that he would remain alive, however cursed. It is also said that that is the resting place of Father Time, waiting until the end of time, nearly forever sleeping; it is said that the house is laced with deadly traps, for those foolish enough to tread upon it's premises.
In those campfires they also speak of Richard Maxwell, he was a part of the ambitious bunch. He did not accept things for the way that they are, he wanted to know just what the rules were, then snap them right down the middle. So one day Richard heard the story of the house on the hill, so unsurprisingly he swore that he would walk up to the door, and get inside. The rest of the children, as knave as he, believed that it would be a wonderful idea; all but one, which was me as a child.

I am of Irish decent, and always the child who believes in every story that comes across my ears, no matter the obscurity. My father was a Funeral Director, so the dead have not been something I have shied away from; I can also tell you just how old a corpse is, simply by the firmness, smell, and rot just from a glance. The boys knew this, and constantly bombarded me with questions pertaining to dead animals found on the forest floor. I am also of the more timid nature; so as I climbed through the fog infested woods, I believed that I say a silvery flash of hair along the way multiple times, all fleeting before I could catch a gimps past my perifularl vision. About halfway there, I heard one of the most terrible noise; but as I asked around, no one had heard it. The cry had continued for the rest of the walk through the woods, the noise had been such a depressing tone that I had tears jerked to my eyes more than a few times.
As he approached the rotted away house; Richard stood along the edge of the forest, fearful of the unknown. As I neared the tree line, the wailing had stopped, and blaring silence overtook my ears. We stood there for minuets; waiting until Richard did as he claimed. Slowly, as though to negate the traps laid by Father Time; he walked on the dead grass. Each careful step crushed the dead leaves under his foot, and deafened our ears. Halfway across the yard, one of Richard's buddy called out to him, saying that this was not needed; but true to his character, Richard waved him off with a flick of his left hand. Grueling minutes passed as we watched him reach the porch. Mindful of the tripwire bombs placed by Father Time, he was close enough to reach out and grab the door. Bursts of cheer escaped out pursed lips; but it was soon silenced by a wave of the hand by Richard. As we held our breath, he reached out and opened the door. As he turned around, cheers erupted from out mouth; but those too were silenced by a raise of a hand, but that hand was not Richards. An inky black cloth reached up and draped across Richards chest, and touched his chest. As he froze in his place, the black hand tightened across his chest, pulling him tighter in towards the black stillness of the inner house. A scream jumped from his trembling lips, as he was pulled back into the house; we could see his limbs flail madly as he was dragged into the enveloping ink. His scream turned to a low gurgle as blood shot from the doorway, splattering the front lawn. Twenty heart beats later, a pale body tumbled down the stairway. We rushed to him, unafraid of any traps that were lain on the ground; and when we reached his body, it was not the same body which had gone into the house. Yes it was the same size and weight, but the way that the skin folded as if it had decayed for years, not seconds. The boys looked at me questioningly, but there were no answers that escaped my lips. I ran in through the woods, as fast as my legs could carry me, and then faster. While running, I saw a silver flash of hair; mockingly, as if it knew all along what horrors were going to occur.
By now the sun has set on the house, enveloping it in a golden halo. As I walk along the lawn; the spot in which Richards blood had splatted had grown to a bright green color, all those years later. As I turned and walked away from the murder scene, away from the blood of Richard Maxwell. The banshee in the woods called out it's mocking cry, forever taunting with it's wisdom. Only if I understood that the closed doors should remain closed, Pandora would have been pleased.