Young Writers Society

Here is a story I wrote for English.

I'm posting to find out how to post and stuff.

The House

He had walked slowly to the abandoned house. Or had he ran? All he clearly remembered was his tired limbs and aching mind. He found it hard to think, what time was it? Was it safe to leave? He remembered little of his journey yet the incident remained strong in his mind, playing over and over in his head, like a broken record stuck on the very worst part of the song. The most horrific. Even as he sat in this faded armchair, his mind was filled with the visions of what had happened, filled with the screams he had heard. Those screams. But all he knew now, for sure, was that....his mind ached. He took the glass from the table beside him and savoured the cool feeling of water down his throat. He held it against his sleeve and briefly tipped it upwards, dampening the cheap and tattered cloth. He stroked it across his forehead. It felt cool but still.....his mind ached. And then the screams. They came again. He tried to block them out but they filled his head. For the first few hours he had listened. What were his options? What could he have done? But soon the screams grew louder, or his mind weaker. And now, with that horrific noise swelling and growing, like an iron fist closing around his head, he succumbed to the enticing offer of sleep. For less than a minute he slept undisturbed. But, as any sane man would guess, the screams filled his dreams too. The two worlds collided and he knew that this burden was inescapable. But in death, his last but final resort, would the sound follow him still? It was with this thought he became truly afraid. Of what death, not life, had in store for him. Was his only real option but another figment of his now deranged imagination? He lay back, allowing his terrifying thoughts to engulf him entirely. He must escape. There were other options, he just had to look. But, his mind ached.

A lone house sat upon a forbidding hill. It lay still and silent but, through the eyes of any man deemed a fool by his peers, it shivered with the power only a human, or more, could possess. It moved, it actually moved, when the man had entered the building. Had nobody seen that? But I am no fool. Do I not stand before the very house that could spell this man’s death? Think what you may because, although I may see what others do not, am I not here tonight? And you call that a fool’s possession? A fool has nothing but ignorance. I am a man of virtue; a fool is the man that deems me unworthy. But I saw this man enter. More, I saw this man’s deed that drove him to enter. A heavy burden, yes, but not one so serious as to control, perhaps destroy, this man’s life. I must do what I can to protect him. I must, but what of the house? It does not want me here. It wants this man to suffer. It has experienced and witnessed the same as I, yet come to a different conclusion. It would engulf me the second it was offered the opportunity, me and the man. But what has a madman to lose?

Two men had entered that house. The house that had been left on that hill to rot for so long. There were no records of it and, until the real estate agency had claimed it as its own, nobody had owned it. And after nearly ten years on the market the house had had not a single visitor. It was as if some mysterious aura pushed everybody away. Everybody but those the house wanted. Of course, it was popular amongst children to fantasize about the house, calling it haunted and telling tales to scare each other. They had built a myth around it and, although few would admit, adults were beginning to believe the tales of the children. They had always been uneasy about the house but as an adult would, they chose to ignore the way the house always seemed; that it had a spirit and a power. A power that could lure in the unsuspecting visitor, actually control the people of the city. But as powerful as it had always seemed, that was all. Not once had the house been seen using its power, if indeed it had one. Not, that is, until one man kept a secret. A secret that he had no mind to keep, not until he found himself in an abandoned house, running from his fears. But when you run you have decided, “This will be my own to keep”. But keeping a secret is not a simple as it seems. Soon your mind revolves entirely around what you wished never to reveal. Your energy, night and day, is pulled towards it, but when there is no way out, it only grows. Until you carry with yourself an air of depression that consumes you and others, if they are unfortunate enough to know you. And then with your entire being focused singularly on that one secret, it opens to the world. If any care to listen, they will hear. They will hear your deepest fears. One only needs to listen. Few have ears, but they will hear. And the house has ears.

The candles had almost burnt out. Had he lit candles? They were there, on the table but surely he had not lit them. He had come to hide. The flames flickered, scattering their light around the room and one candle burnt out. A thin wisp of smoke twirled upwards, a simple finale to a single flame. He sat still in his chair. He must have been here long, for the candles had had time to burn out, but when was it that they had been lit? It didn’t much matter. Nothing mattered much now, things were irreversible. But what of himself, what were he to do? Suffer the same fate of those he had......the screams. They drowned out his thoughts, they always did. How then could he reach a conclusion with that horrid noise shattering his mind, or were they the conclusion? Did the answer lie within the screams, is that why he heard them still? He lifted himself from the chair. It felt as though his body was being held up, forced up, as though it was not through his own conscious decisions that he was moving. He moved slowly to a desk, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Had it been his imagination that he did not recall seeing this when he entered? He was tired, yes, but surely a desk of this size could not slip his mind. It had with it a sense of intelligence, of being. Surely he would have known, would have felt it. Yes. He was sure now this desk had not been.....the screams. Again, oh, again he felt them clatter through his brain, shattering his thoughts. They filled his head, his body, and with a feeling of total loss of control, his hand moved towards the desk’s drawer. Quickly and determinedly, there was no doubt that they would grasp that handle. Closer. Closer. Closer still. And then, with an overwhelming sensation of absolute helplessness his hand formed a fist over the iron handle. With the connection, as if a circuit had been completed, came what at first seemed like pain. Pain throughout his entire body, but as it began to subside for, yes, it was already ending, he realized that it was not pain. It was the screams, of those he had.....hurt. Not only hurt, not only that, but also.......his hand pulled back. This time he was filled with real pain. Physical pain that caused his hand to bleed. The drawer pulled open and, as drops of blood fell to the floor, his hand broke away from the handle. And the screams stopped; For now, only for now. That he understood. But as he stood there, hand now enveloped in a crimson glove, he thought not of the screams, not of what happened but what lay in front of him. For in the draw was a blood-soaked knife. His mind now filling with the screams once more, he stood motionless. And his hand, unstoppably, moved slowly towards it.

I climbed the steps to the house hastily as I knew the man was endangered but the speed with which I scaled the staircase inside the house was not of concern but of feeling. After I had entered the house and was wondering which way to venture I was filled with a feeling of danger, foreboding. It pushed me hard, for somehow I knew this man’s time was running out. Although it had been a wave that had passed quickly, the energy it instilled in me had inspired me to continue on my whim of zeal. Even now I ran, checking each door. It was strange but when that wave of power had washed over me, I had headed straight to the left-most staircase, as though I had inherited the thoughts of a man who had dwelt here for a lifetime. Clever as I was, I was unable to deduct from my options, the way to proceed next. Although my energy remained my newfound intellect had abandoned me at the end of that strange power. Now, bursting through doors, I place all my hopes on chance. I had found nothing but empty rooms and now, turning a corner, my vigour was subsiding. I turn to see another hallway of doors but my helplessness shatters into nothing as I see a door. Yes, just another door but no, a unique one. In physical properties it is anonymous but I know that the house, this house, has turned its powers toward that room. You ask how and I am speechless, for as I said I am a man of virtue. You call me a madman? How then do I understand that this is the room. The room I have so enthusiastically searched for. But would you not search hard too, if you knew what fate may lie ahead for the man inside? I throw my opened hand at the door knob but as I curl it into a fist my hand burns. I begin to turn but as I do it gets worse. I stop and find that the pain steadies. I twist it backwards to find my pain decrease. The house has me in a tangled situation and I almost laugh at its sagacity, I control my own pain, why then would I hurt myself? But you yourself said I am a madman. And rationality in such a situation would surely cause the man’s death so I twist the doorknob. My mind is filled with the pain but I take comfort in knowing I control it. The house, in its cleverness, has outsmarted itself and I am able to open the door. The soft click of the door’s mechanism pierces the cloud of pain like an arrow. I push and let go, my discomfort disintegrating. It swings open and I see the man, knife in hand.

He holds it up against his face, tracing a painful line of blood as he runs it upwards towards his temple. The house is taking control, I must act fast and save him before he is entirely consumed. But I cannot move. The house’s power, collected in this room, prevents me. I try to shout, to scream but I cannot, instead I watch. Oh, what a painful and hideous thing, to watch but not act. To watch a man take his own life and not stop him. The blade moves downwards to his throat, still drawing a sickening line of red. He turns slowly, yes, he turns! Does this mean the man has control? Slowly, so slowly he turns, the knife pressing harder and deeper against his throat. A line of blood trickles downwards but his body inches closer towards me as he turns. His hand slides sideways, releasing three more lines of blood but I can see his eyes now. He stares forward, if only I can make eye contact then maybe he will be safe. His hand tilts the knife and the tip of the blade presses against the middle of his throat. Still he turns, and his eyes are but millimetres away from meeting mine. The knife presses harder and more blood pours out but he continues to turn and finally our eyes meet. I see in his eyes recognition, yes! The room is filled with flashing images. The car speeding down the narrow road. A person, out in front, in the middle of the road. Their eyes connect and exchange terrified glances. The driver, with the knife against his throat, presses down on the brakes but the car does not slow. As I stare at him my body is thrown into the air and I come to rest nearby, on the road. Blood trickles down my face, into my eyes and in death I see the man still. The car, accelerating, and the driver, speed away towards the house. That house.

The screams. They fill the darkness. But with an abrupt stop, they cease and the two men are once again in the house. Both now lie on the floor. The blood spattered knife lies nearby away from us both. I reach out to the man, my thoughts probing the room for him and I find him, faint but there. He has survived and has been forgiven. And now I can let go.