What is this, Sarah? Well, it’s one of the pieces I wrote for this semester’s prose class. It turned out to be Gothic Horror styled, so I thought some of you might enjoy reading it. It’s very short as the assignment was for a micro-piece. I know lots of you are classic Gothic Horror lovers and writers yourself, so I’d love to know your take on it. It’s also heavily inspired by my own experience of living with anxiety.
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| It’s also not supposed to be entirely serious! |
As the grandfather clock in the lanky hallway rang eleven times and the house began to creak uncontrollably against the nightly pick-me-up of summer breeze, Eloise lay frozen in her bed. She stared at the roof, then at the door, unable to move. Even the roll of her eye in the socket frightened her. It was as if they could hear even her sight wander – whoever theywere.
There is no one there.
But her mind began to swim with the images of invaders. Is no one creeping down the hallway? Dropping from the attic entrance outside her door? Leaving strings of saliva in her leftovers? Breathing in anticipation, hand hovering over her bedroom doorhandle?
What was that noise?
She jumped even at the idea of a noise. The slight movement drew attention to the thick blanket she had pocketed herself into, building a budding pool of ice-cold sweat. It was the middle of summer with days that seemed to run together into an intelligible blur of constant dry heat. Somehow the sudden breeze forced its way under the blankets making her skin sing with a sickly salty chill. She slid from the covers and caught a faint sound between the whisper of crumpling sheets – a footstep?
just outside the door?
No, it’s just the cat prowling around.
But suddenly, the sound of a murmured yawn issued from the foot of the bed. A thin back leg stretched out from the pile of blankets, followed by a cat’s cry that seemed to pierce through the silence. An eager cat with a desperate expression peered down the length of the bed at Eloise; an expression that meant only one thing.
The sound of the clock ticking in the hall seemed to echo off the walls of Eloise’s room. Oil-painted, black and white, hundreds of unknown faces crowded the walls. All of them staring down at her confined to their frames and sparse space between crammed portraits on all sides. As the clock ticked on the sound began to cling to their pursed lips and feigned smiles. The noise built until they began to scream each second out at her and her head throbbed. Maybe she could slide her body out from the blankets that clung to her ankles and off the bed when the clock chimed twelve.
I don’t want him to hear me.
But, there is no one there.
She was grating her teeth. Could she stifle a scream if they crumbled into her mouth all at once? Would she gasp and choke? Would he bring her the glass of water from beside the bathroom sink? Or would the door grasp at the carpet strings to unveil a lone watching eye? To the beat of the ticking clock she slid from the bed. She listened to the sound of her toes sliding between each tuft of carpet and wondered if anyone listened. Taking too much care with each step her head throbbed harder and harder. Her heart beat faster. The clock seemed to tick faster. The sounds entwined and ran together, beating and ticking – ticking and beating and then fluttering together like a swarm of sounds buzzing in and out of every pore of her body.
She grasped for the door handle. Each fingertip fell into place and the door seemed to rip from the frame, like boiled flesh from the bone. For a moment there was silence. For a moment she watched the cat trot away into the hall, heard its bell clatter as it disappeared. This was a moment that delayed the sting that spread across Eloise. Starting from her lips that shifted apart, her hands that froze, her heart that moaned inwardly and her eyes that briefly captured the image of a gleaming face watching her as he took another spoonful of the left-over lasagne she had prepared earlier that day.
This time Eloise couldn’t just feel the walls falling in on her but could see them. One breath after another wasn’t working. The walls began to tumble but not to fall. They began to flail and roll like hillside mounds as if they had begun to argue amongst themselves whether they wanted to be walls or wanted to bulge and drip and smother her where she stood. She slammed the door shut and crumbled to the floor.
The sound of her own heart trying to free itself from her chest roused her. She’d been watching the door handle, forcing her eyes open and arguing with herself. The door handle gleamed amongst the dark of the room, reflecting off the whites of eyes all around. It mesmerised, almost soothed. Another Eloise stared back at her from the chrome surface of the handle. She was distorted: pale and thin but she smiled and her teeth gleamed so bright. If she were to speak, Eloise knew she would whisper sweet-consolidations.
Remember last time?
That was different.
It’s all in your head.
This is different.
But soon the sound of her heart began to echo from the walls. She could taste it as it rose up into her throat and attempted to swallow it back down into the depths of her stomach as it clung to her lips.
It’s all in your head.
He began to tap at the door. Eloise felt as though he was prying through the wooden threads to get to her. The taps grew louder and faster, becoming knocks and then the door submitted into pure thrashing where it rattled on its hinges and roared towards her. A lone mirror that sat amongst the portrait faces shattered.
Stop! Stop it, stop!
The faces began to sneer, and laugh. Arms stretched from their frames to prod and pull at Eloise’s hair. Her hands grasped at the carpet threads – grasped for anything. And still the knocking continued. Eloise ran to the door, pounding it with her fists, shaking the handle almost to the point of pulling it from the wood and then wrenched it open.
A sudden silence caught in her throat, choking her intended shriek from her lungs and away, to lose itself amongst the silvery shadows. The shadows ran across the walls, hiding in nooks of window panes and the furthest corners of picture frames. But shadows were Eloise’s only company. The grandfather clock in the lanky hallway had paused, embracing the silence, before it rang twelve times. The summer breeze snuck through the slight cracks in window glass and swirled around her ankles drying the seeping sweet as it passed.
What do you think? Fail or nailed? Personally, I’m pretty damn proud of it. It’s not perfect. There are things that I want to change but I’m not sure how. But looking back at some of my older work I really think I’m getting better. That’s really all I wanted from the start. That’s actually one of the reason I started this blog – to improve my writing skills!
The Walrus Room 