The Communion

Photo by Joshua Kettle on Unsplash

Magdalena, my little sister, faded away when I was 13 years old. My mum, a widow of five years at the time, found her vacant bedroom in the early hours of June 22nd, 1999. Since then, no one ever laid eyes on her.

Our maid, Mrs Berkeley, told the detectives that she saw Magdalena sleep soundly just hours before she disappeared. Not a single soul understood what was going on.

My mum, already thin and frail from an ongoing episode of depression, failed to recover and eventually succumbed to her own mind two weeks after this incident.

I knew what the word death meant, I had heard it before, but it wasn’t until my mum passed away that I had to face what it really entailed. 

Loneliness, despair, and fright. 

The police ruled out foul play after their first investigation, citing that there were no forced entrances, stains of blood, or signs of struggle anywhere in our modest, single-storey house down a twisting lane in the countryside.

With my mum’s passing, the missing person’s case was bound to close and become cold, and my little sister forever forgotten. 

I was sent to an orphanage soon after and that’s where I remained until I no longer could. I heard the caretakers talk amongst themselves upon first entering my new, dingy home that all my relatives knew of my existence but no one wanted me.

I couldn’t wrap my head around why for many years, but it all made sense later on. 

With no education or skill, I left the orphanage at eighteen years old. One of the caretakers, Mrs Johnson, offered me a job at her husband’s workplace.

She was a kind soul; while the others merely saw us, the orphans, as an exhausting chore, she took care of us like no other and saw us as her own children.

As I spent more time with the Johnsons, I learnt that the pair had no children of their own and had spent many tiring years – financially and mentally – trying to conceive a child by natural means.

When their endeavours were fruitless, they accepted their fate and decided to make life easier for children like me.

I couldn’t recall a happier time in my life than those spent with the Johnsons. We became a close-knit family. The Johnsons were like parents to me and they saw me as their biological son. 

When they bit the dust from old age, two days apart from each other, I knew the feelings of despair and loneliness would come back to haunt me.

I sold the property and the blacksmith shop and embarked on a lone journey one wintry morning on the 24th of October 2013. 

Death seemed to follow me wherever I trekked. Like the Grim Reaper, whoever I touched faded away and abandoned me as if I were a stray dog.

Yet there was only one instance where death did not pervade my life and turned it upside down. Magdalena’s disappearance.

It was difficult to translate my bereaved thoughts on paper, but I knew she wasn’t dead. In fact, I thought I knew what transpired that fateful night in 1999. 

Although I was thirteen at the time, I had a habit of wetting my bed. This was a cause of concern and distress for my mum and she would beat me up whenever she got wind of this, so I did my best to make sure she wouldn’t know.

As I was taking the soaked sheets to the laundry basket downstairs in the basement, I heard footfalls coming through from the drafty hallway and peered out from the ajar basement door.

That’s when I saw Mrs Berkeley talking with someone obscured from view in a hushed and alert tone. The other person did not speak a single word.

I snuck out as soon as Mrs Berkeley and the other person disappeared and sprinted to my bedroom down the hallway. Turning the rusty doorknob, I suddenly felt compelled to look at my sister’s bedroom door and noticed that it was slightly ajar.

Then I heard it. A muffled, barely audible scream. It sounded like someone being smothered repeatedly. I let go of the doorknob and was about to take a peek inside her room when another set of booming footsteps caught me short.

A dark silhouette was the only thing I saw before I locked myself into my bedroom and was all ears.

When the footsteps gradually ceased, I raced to the floor-length window and stared out into the gloaming. Someone forced Magdalena into a black van and then hit the darkness-shrouded lane.

I tried to tell my mum about this, but she wouldn’t listen. The loss of Magdalena, coupled with her own demons, was too much for her.

I couldn’t understand why someone would kidnap my sister, because we were neither affluent nor had any enemies, but I knew that Mrs Berkeley had something to do with it.

And with these thoughts in my bleak and despairing mind, I decided to track down her and find out the truth once and for all.

My leads led me to a desolate hamlet in the middle of nowhere and far away from civilisation. The nearest town was several miles in the southeast.

Our former maid lived in a ramshackle house. It was located beside a parish church with a black, towering steeple that cast its eerie shadow over the entire place.

As I passed by the foreboding church, I thought I saw someone watching me through one of the arched windows. Whoever – or whatever it was – it vanished as soon as I took notice of it.

I scanned the note with the address again, hoping to find an error and get out of this god-forsaken place, but there was no mistake. I was at the right address.

Trudging with heavy and careful steps, I soon realised that I wasn’t being watched by one entity only – the entire hamlet seemed to follow me with their hollow, detached eyes. Yet, for some odd reason, no one dared to confront me.

I peeked over my shoulder as a distant din reached my ears. The whistling wind picked up and swept through the vicinity with unprecedented force, as if it wanted to destroy everything in its path.

I broke off and let my darting eyes wander from side to side until they once again landed on the parish church. This time, the figure, the figures inside and beyond the windows, did not vanish into thin air.

Startled, I turned around completely and stumbled backwards until I bumped into something. For the briefest of moments, I almost lost my cool and fled. 

“What’s a kid doin’ here?”

It was an elderly man in his mid-seventies with a shaggy, grey beard. His dark attire seemed foreign to me, perhaps due to the rising anxiety in my veins, but then I noticed the clerical collar and relaxed my shoulders.

My laboured breath came in quick gasps. Still out of it, I instinctively glanced back at the church, but the figures were no longer there. 

“I…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know what to say or how to explain what I was doing here. “I, uhm, am looking for someone, sir.”

The priest took his sweet time replying. 

“No one lives in this place. It’s been a ghost town for as long as I remember.”

I blinked and took another look at the note. 

“A ghost town?”

The priest followed my flickering gaze.

“Who told you to come here?”

“I—someone from my old hometown told me. I- I’m sure this is the correct—”

The priest grabbed me by the collar. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t even have time to react. His eyes were in a state of delirium. 

“Who told you? I won’t repeat myself, kid! Speak up!”

“I- I don’t know his name. He worked for my parents when—Gabriel? Yeah, I think that’s what Mrs Berkeley called—”

The priest let go of me. “The Berkeleys?”

As I was about to answer, the man stepped away. His rounded eyes were fraught with terror, as if he had seen the antichrist himself.

I hardly took a step forwards when the man tripped and crawled away from me.

“S- stay away from me! Stay away—O Heavenly Father, have mercy! Keep me from the hands of the wicked! Lord, hear my cry for mercy!”

I broke off, astonished beyond what words could capture. He was praying. I couldn’t grasp what was happening. As if my confusion wasn’t enough, the church bells rang and reverberated through the entire hamlet.

I turned around. For the briefest of moments, I thought I was seeing things. The church porch was crowded with dark, faceless figures.

But they weren’t moving towards us. I squinted. Wait, they couldn’t move past the porch threshold? As I was about to ask the priest what this was all about, I belatedly noticed that he had risen back on his feet. 

Before I knew it, the old man punched me across the cheek with a rock and overpowered me. 

The cold, now bloody, surface of the rock hit me on the side of my head repeatedly until my view was obscured by red liquid.

The only thing I heard before my ears were punctured was the priest’s delirious laughter. His wide eyes were maniacal and his grin was that of a sinister being without a soul or throbbing heart. 

I blacked out as the final strike dislocated my jaw and twisted my nose. 

When I regained consciousness, I was inside a clear casket, stripped naked and vulnerable to the biting cold.

A grainy picture of an altarpiece depicting the Second Coming of Christ was the first thing that caught my attention.

But my senses were altered completely; my eyes failed me, my ears captured no sound, and my limbs were paralysed. A groan escaped from my lips as I tried to break free. 

I recoiled. Someone banged on the casket out of nowhere and wrapped its bony arms around it. I gasped for air, my eyes fraught with dread at the sight in front of me.

It was the unfamiliar face of an old and delicate woman. Her misty, bloodshot eyes looked at me with pity as she kept mumbling something, perhaps a prayer, and wrapped her hands tightly around the casket.

She was soon followed by another, who in turn was followed by yet another skeletal figure. The entire parish was here.

Photo by Giovanny Gómez Pérez on Unsplash

Those dark figures I saw now had faces and looked as human as they could possibly become. But I knew they weren’t. 

Mrs Berkeley was the last one to emerge from the deadly crowd. She hadn’t aged. As she embraced the casket and closed her eyes for a prayer, my eyes landed on the object around her throat. A pendant necklace. It belonged to Magdalena.

As if she could read my thoughts, Mrs Berkeley flung her eyes open and bore her hollow, empty sockets into mine. I flinched. The clear casket rocked from the impact.

My deaf ears regained their hearing with an excruciating surge of adrenaline and my numb extremities regained back control. I heaved after air, my heart pounding hard against my chest.

I instinctively touched my jaw and realised someone had put it back in place. I glanced at the woman with wide, bewildered eyes, confused and utterly lost.

A sinister smile crossed her skeletal frame right then, and she turned her back to me, raised her thin, decaying arms wide and broke into a fit of dismal laughter that chilled me to the bone. The communion of death followed suit.

With a sense of urgency, I kicked the casket repeatedly until it broke into shards of glass and interrupted whatever these morbid beings were trying to do.

I rolled out, seized a piece of the shattered glass on the wooden floor and held Mrs Berkeley in a chokehold with my arm.

The communion fell into silence as I threatened to thrust the glass into the woman’s rotting throat pulsating with old blood.

As I made my way out of the church with Mrs Berkeley, I knew my only chance at survival was to return to my car on the other side of the woods before these things found a way to cross the church porch.

While I was having these ruminations, drenched in cold sweat, Mrs Berkeley made her presence known to me. I had almost forgotten I was holding her hostage. 

“There’s no escape from this place, Damon. You can’t escape forever.”

“What? Do you think I’d fall for that? I just need to—”

“You know I’m not lying.”

I panted, trying to decipher whether she was playing mind games or telling the truth. My eyes kept drifting to the other side of the hamlet where I could see the beginning of the narrow forest trail I trekked to get to this place.

I was supposed to see the hood of my car due to the decomposing and sparse vegetation, but I couldn’t. The weight of her words dawned on me as I frantically tried to find it. 

“W- where’s my car?”

“Damon, think, why did you come here for? What compelled you to this place?”

“To- to find my sister, I—”

“But you already know what happened to her. That night, I saw you. We all did. Even your dear, senile mother did.”

I tightened my grip on her throat, panicking, drenched in cold sweat. 

“Cut the crap and tell me where the damn car is!”

“Your mother hated you, Damon. You reminded her of the man who left her with two kids and fled with another woman.”

“I- I don’t remember, I…”

“That night, you went into Magdalena’s room, Damon, didn’t you? And you did something to her. You wanted your mother to feel pain.”

I shook my head, “No. That- that never happened. I would never hurt Magdalena.”

“Oh, dear, you didn’t want to hurt her! But you panicked when she woke up and—”

“No!” I pierced the glass into her throat. “You wicked thing! I didn’t do anything to Magdalena! It- it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! Do you hear me? I didn’t do anything!” 

As crimson blood spilt to the damp ground, the woman’s lifeless body slipped through my fingers and fell. The shard of glass was thrust all the way into her wrinkled skin.

Surprised, I backed away and stared at my bloody hands. The communion of death, still held back by the porch, bemoaned her death. Their hollow sockets crying blood.

I- I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident. 

The deranged priest shoved the bony figures aside right then and came forward, kneeling in front of Mrs Berkeley, convulsing, and totally out of it. He kept repeating:

“Open your eyes, open your eyes…”

Distant memories I thought I lost flooded my mind upon hearing this. It was him. The guy Mrs Berkeley talked to that night Magdalena disappeared. An excruciating pain hit me as the memories returned and I collapsed on my knees. 

That wicked grin… as the man saw me through the cracked basement door, I could still see it as clear as day in my dire mind. I remembered. I remembered it all!

That night, when Mrs Berkeley left, and he saw me, I ran to my bedroom and locked the door. He tried to get in, tirelessly and repeatedly. Until he no longer did.

Then I heard my sister scream.

When I opened the door and looked out into the hallway, my sister’s bedroom door was ajar. As I trudged towards the open door, I became aware of another presence on the other side of the hallway and broke off. It was Mrs Berkeley.

I returned to my room, locked it and put a pillow over my ears. That night, had I not wet my bed and gone down to the basement, I would’ve been the one kidnapped. But why? The answer to this question came much quicker than I anticipated.

“You ruined it all! You ruined it all!” 

The priest lurched forward with inhumane speed, ready to knock me out, but I saw it coming and dodged it. As he staggered back to his feet, he charged at me again and I punched him to the ground.

Still, albeit he was in no condition to fight off someone of my calibre, he tried to get back on his feet. His eyes were that of a madman.

I picked up my sister’s necklace from Mrs Berkeley’s throat and kicked the priest in his gut repeatedly until he stopped moving about.

“You… ruined it all… You devil, you…”

“What did I, or Magdalena, ever do to you people but good? My family gave you a roof over your head, fed you and clothed you! We didn’t do anything, did we? So why?” I kicked the man with more force this time. “Why, Goddamnit?”

I blinked. A sinister grin crossed the priest’s face. I backed away as soon as I noticed his bloody smile, which sent a shiver down my spine and rooted me to the spot. 

“It’s… it’s too late.”

“W- what?”

“This is not… not the end. This,” he said, pointing at me, “is only the beginning.”

I followed his swollen eyes to the night sky devoid of stars. As I did that, the church bells rang for the second time. I turned around.

The dark figures were no longer bound by the porch; they were closing in on us. In a fit of rage, I crouched and held the man in a chokehold.

“What the heck did you do!? Tell me, you piece of shit!”

But the man couldn’t say. He was already dead. But that wasn’t the only thing that happened. Both the priest and Mrs Berkeley turned into dust and perished as if they had never existed.

I stood up at the drop of a hat and ran with all that I had as the figures pursued me to the other side of the haunted hamlet.

Only when I followed the narrow forest trail and found my car did I heave a sigh of relief and slouched forwards in my seat.

Without looking back, I hit the road and watched the ghost town disappear around the curving roadway. 

When I lifted my eyes off the steering wheel and looked through the rearview mirror seconds later, a little girl appeared on the passenger’s seat from thin air and bore her sunken eyes into mine.

She beamed.

I hit the brakes.

The world around me became bathed in blinding brightness. The next thing I heard was the blare of a truck and shot open my flickering eyes. 

The little girl was right in front of me. Her disturbing screams mimicked Magdalena’s when I smothered her until she stopped sprawling about. 

A subtle smile played on my lips as I recalled how her soul slipped away in the darkest hour of the night, reliving the moment I long suppressed before my neck snapped.  

Asgerald Hill

Photo by Katelyn Greer on Unsplash

The wilting rose, which had long been forgotten in the void, was once a noble shade of red. Its mesmerising fragrance filled the air, enveloping everything in its sweet embrace. And the damp soil welcomed the fallen petals, each one a symbol of innocence lost. 

My eyes traced the contours of the drooping crimson flower. I refrained from touching it. A sudden jolt of fear paralysed me. I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

The searing ache in my heart was like a sharp dagger twisting and turning without mercy. I averted my gaze to escape the bewitching flower’s harrowing grasp.

The mansion before me was a shadow of its former self. With creaky floorboards and peeling walls, it whispered secrets from the past long forgotten.

The boarded-up windows bore down on me like piercing eyes. The door yawned open like a mouth, weathered and worn by years of neglect. 

As I entered the front garden, my eyes lingered on the enchanting flowerbed and the dilapidated shed before turning my attention towards the mansion that beckoned me like a lover’s touch. 

I felt the resistance in the marrow of my bones as I pushed the grating door open. The weight of it strained my weakened muscles.

A grand staircase loomed ahead. I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay at the very top. Twisting like a snake, the scent of rain-soaked oak filled the air. It breathed.

The doors downstairs, made of dark wood, were evenly spaced on either side of the massive staircase. I ran my fingers over the cold, rusted knob. The doors remained stubbornly locked.

I didn’t notice the closet attached to the spandrel at first. But as I stood in front of the last door to the left, it caught my attention. I didn’t know what made it stand out to me. It looked familiar, like something I knew too well but couldn’t remember. 

I barely took a step forwards when a curious din from the second floor broke me off. My eyes followed the winding stairs up, taking in the ornately decorated handrail that led to the landing above.

Upon reaching the second floor, I found myself facing a hallway lined with a multitude of doors. The striped wallpaper peeled wherever I lay my eyes, some parts even ripped by what could only be a wild beast. 

I counted each door as I trudged through the dim hallway. Most of them were unmarked, some numbered but hardly discernible from the passage of time.

Memories of my childhood came rushing back as I stood there, in the middle of the hallway, of what was once my home. The guesthouse, once filled with lively chatter, now stood in silence. Its empty rooms echoed with sombreness and melancholy.

The last time I looked up this place, I read the authorities were planning to demolish it. As they should. How many years had it been? I couldn’t even remember. So why was this place still here? 

The musty smell of old wood and peeling paint filled the air as I traced my fingers along the striped walls. It was as if the guesthouse never existed. My distraught mind erased all memories of it. Yet every nook and cranny was etched into my mind like a map of my past.

When I was six years old, my parents became my legal guardians. A Good Samaritan found me on the edge of the forest and took me to the local orphanage – at least that was what was told to me.

The townspeople called me the ‘Wonder Child’. I often wondered why I was given that name. No one, however, offered an explanation. I was kept in the dark for far too many days. 

I vividly remember the day I found an old newspaper and was reminded of the past for the first time in years. I was apparently the sole survivor of a homicide. That was the truth everyone tried to shield me from.

I was found naked and vulnerable, my body drenched in blood that had soaked through my clothes. Something terrible happened to me, something so unspeakable that the townspeople vowed to keep it a secret and bury the truth.

The article was penned by Mr Parker, a journalist who had retired two decades ago. I didn’t contact him back then. I tried to forget, to push the memories of my haunting past to the back of my mind and pretend they never existed. But with each passing year, the mysteries of my past weighed heavier on my mind and bore me down. 

The faint aroma of coffee greeted me as I knocked on Mr Parker’s door two weeks ago. The crisp air of late October filled my lungs as I drove through winding roads for two and a half hours to find answers. I had to. The past haunted me and drove me up the wall each passing year. 

My adoptive mother’s lips were sealed tight, she wouldn’t tell me a thing. To protect me from the painful memories, she said. Despite all of this, my curiosity got the best of me. 

The psychiatric ward became a second home to me in my late twenties and beyond, with the same routine day in and day out. Now and then, my anxiety would spiral out of control, and no medication could ease the symptoms.

My life took a turn for the worse. I was supposed to settle down with the woman of my dreams and climb the corporate ladder. But instead, everything fell apart and slipped from my grasp like fine sand. I couldn’t stop it. 

I felt like I was in a constant fog, my mind unable to focus, and my senses dulled. Something was off about me. Although everyone around me doubted me, I had an unwavering belief that the key to my cure lay hidden in the past. 

When Mrs Parker peered at me through the crack in the door and asked who I was, I hesitated. I told her I was a journalist and needed Mr Parker’s input for an article I was writing, which wasn’t entirely accurate but had a grain of truth to it, nonetheless. 

Upon entering the drawing room, a pungent odour of aged urine and burnt coffee overwhelmed my senses. When he saw me, Mr Parker quickly folded his newspaper and set it aside. His face was etched with wrinkles as deep as the grooves of a vinyl record.

I started our conversation with traditional pleasantries, mindful of the importance the older generation placed on such formalities. His eyes followed my every move as I introduced myself as a junior journalist in need of his help. 

“Please accept my apologies for my abrupt arrival, Mr Parker. However, there is something crucial I need to ask you.”

As I spoke, Mr Parker placed his emerald teacup on the saucer and peered at me intently through his round glasses. 

“I know most of my juniors at The Local Times. You’re not one of them.”

I gave a small, closed-lip smile. “I began my employment not too long ago, sir. I am a stranger to you, as you are to me.”

“Pray, what brings you here? The Local Times have some of the best journalists in the country, I reckon.”

“Sir, I would like to inquire about a case you reported two decades ago.”

Mr Parker shifted in his seat. The leather sofa creaked beneath him. He cleared his throat and cast a glance at his wife. Mrs Parker rose from her designated seat beside me and the sound of the door closing reverberated throughout the room. 

“May I inquire as to which case has aroused such keen curiosity?”

I drew a deep breath.

“The Asgerald Hill Homicide, sir.”

As I looked into Mr Parker’s eyes, I noticed a subtle shift in his expression that I couldn’t quite place. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes as if to get a better look at me.

“That case has remained unsolved for quite some time. It has gone cold, and there’s no evidence or witness to follow.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There’s a witness, a child. You reported—”

Mr Parker stood up, his eyes laced with distress in the course of a few seconds.

“A child whose memory has failed him! You call that a witness, Mr…?”

“Jensen, sir,” I said, adding to prevent any further questioning. “But what if that child now pursues the truth?”

I watched his lips move soundlessly, forming sentences that were filled with doubt. As I rose to my feet, I could feel my heart racing in anticipation of what was to come. 

“Mr Parker, please! I am in search of answers… answers only you can provide.”

He shook his head, scared out of his wits. Every time I tried to get closer, his body tensed up, and he recoiled in fear. Startled, I didn’t know what to do and remained rooted in place. Mrs Parker entered with a silver tray, which clinked with the sound of fine china. When she saw her husband’s gaunt appearance, she baulked.

“My dear, what’s the matter?”

Not once did Mr Parker take his eyes off me. I was taken aback when he flung his teacup in my direction. The sound of the shattered china shook me, and I couldn’t help but stare at the broken pieces on the grating floorboards. 

“GET OUT!”

“Please, Mr Parker, I—”

I winced as the tray hit my head, and warm blood trickled down my face. As I looked up at the elderly man, I couldn’t help but notice the fear etched on his face. The words escaped my lips before I could even process what I was saying. 

“Even after all these years, what is it that still haunts you and prevents you from disclosing the truth, sir?”

“I know nothing!”

“You’re lying! I need to find out! I must! It’s the only way I can sleep in peace—”

“Then sleep not!”

After saying my goodbyes, I walked out of the Parkers and into the crisp air. The shock left me feeling dizzy and confused, unable to make sense of my surroundings. 

With one of my leads rendered useless, I had to rely on the only remaining one. The guesthouse. It stood as a testament to the events of the past where something wicked took place.

That haunted place affected Mr Parker so deeply that he went out of his way to avoid any mention of it. Just what happened there? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. 

The path onwards was riddled with peril, I knew that much. But the sleepless nights had taken their toll, and the hallucinations were a constant reminder of my deteriorating mental state. The weight of exhaustion hung heavy on my eyelids, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every moment felt like an eternity, a torture that was driving me to the brink of insanity. 

As these thoughts haunted me, the ninth door creaked open from the inside, the sound echoing throughout the drafty corridor. I took a deep breath and advanced towards it, determined to uncover its secrets.

The odd room came into view at last. I couldn’t help but notice the striped wallpaper that was peeling all around me, the velvety rug that was covered in a layer of dust, and the frigid air that took my breath away. It was so cold it felt like needles on my skin.

With every whistle of the wind, the door rocked back and forth, letting in the chilly air from the cracked windows. The room was filled with vibrant colours, from the emerald bedspread to the cerise cabinet and the deep black of the writing desk.

I picked up an old piece of paper from the desk and ran my fingers over the rough texture of the parchment. The poem followed the structure of an English sonnet, but the unfamiliar words had a distinctly Celtic feel to them. It struck me as odd that an English sonnet was paired with a language of the past.

I tucked the poem away and turned my attention to the cabinet, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room. It was a treasure trove of history, with rows of dresses that had seen generations pass by. As I shifted through the dresses, my fingers brushed against something sharp. The intricate details of the filigree caught my eye, and as I looked closer, I noticed a nail at the end stained with blood – my blood. Holding the nail up to the string of sunlight, I could see the tiny grooves etched into its tip.

Just as I turned my head towards the cracked door, I heard a loud thud and the sound of shuffling feet. I ventured out into the hallway, and the cold, still air made the hairs on my arms stand up. I searched the entire corridor, my eyes straining to see through the dim lightning. But there was no one here. 

The silence was deafening. The only sound was the beating of my heart. As I ambled to the end of the hallway, an oval window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling at the very end of it caught my attention. 

A family grave lay in silence, surrounded by a destroyed wire fence that swung back and forth in the wind. The grass was dry and unkempt, subtly dancing in the breeze and beckoning me to come over and explore the garden, and so I did. 

The chill of the damp air and the musty scent of the ancient tombs reminded me of the fragility of life. The graves were adorned with wilted flowers and weathered headstones, marking the resting place of the Aldanes family.

A droplet landed on the tip of my nose. Looking up to the heavens, the grey clouds loomed overhead and threatened to unleash a downpour. As I decided to call it quits and return tomorrow morning, my foot slipped.

Something got stuck in my foot. I thought it was just a plain stone at first, but when I picked it up, I noticed it wasn’t. It was a piece of a wooden doorknob. I strained my eyes to see the details on the chipped surface, but all I could make out was the slithering body of a snake or a winding figure.

Photo by Gwendal Cottin on Unsplash

A chill ran down my spine and I shuddered. The weight of the past suddenly hit me and I threw the wooden piece before collapsing onto both knees. I doubled over. A searing ache tore through my insides.

The world around me faded away and all I could hear was the sound of my screams echoing through the air. I rocked back and forth like a distressed child. Memories of the past flooded my mind like a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. As I trembled like a sick dog, one memory stood out amongst the rest.

The pain slowly subsided and in its place came the demonic cackling of the wind. It sounded like the chorus of witches serving the Beelzebub. My bloodshot eyes looked more crimson than blood and held no emotion – they were as empty as shells. 

I gasped for air. My heart raced out of control. The beat of my irregular heart sent waves of tremor through every fibre of my being. I could feel the mud crushing underneath me as I curled into a fetal position and let the rain wash over me. 

When I finally came to my senses, I was shivering and soaked to the bone. My limbs, numb from the cold, refused to support me as I tried to stand up, and I crumpled onto the wet ground.

My face was covered in mud, but I could still feel the icy raindrops beating down on me as I gazed up at the darkening sky. 

The night sky was clear; the stars shone like diamonds against the blackness. Where was I? I shook my head to get rid of the haziness. My eyes flickered to the towering guesthouse. My mind drew a blank as I tried to recall why I had come here. Then it hit me.

I covered my ears, trying to block out the piercing sound that seemed to come from every direction. It was like a switch had been flipped, and the pain brought back the harrowing memories for a second time.

Feeling the ache shoot through my body, I winced as I forced myself to stand straight. Beads of cold sweat poured down my face as I stumbled towards the barbed wire fence. My legs threatened to give out beneath me.

Fortunately, I parked my Togg just beyond the fence and didn’t have to walk for too long. 

Settling into the driver’s seat, I felt the cool leather against my skin as I double-checked the doors. Exhausted, I took a deep breath and felt the icy air fill my lungs. I barely closed my eyes when I went out like a light.

I slept undisturbed for the next six hours. Like the dead, I heard or saw nothing, too out of it to even think straight. 

When I flung my eyes open everything was a blur. The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, my chest heaved with each laboured breath. I looked around, confused, and the sight of the dashboard and the steering wheel slowly brought me back to my senses.

I shook my head and shifted my eyes to whatever had stirred me awake. Someone hammered on the window.

A stranger’s face pressed against the glass. The pungent smell of sweat hit me like a ton of bricks when I rolled down the window. The woman standing there had a dishevelled appearance, with messy hair and wrinkled clothes. With her wavy, auburn hair catching the light, she stood at only 5 feet but had a sturdy build. 

“Need a hand with anything or…?”

“No, no, thank you. I… I just got lost, that’s all. I hope I’m not in trouble for staying the night here.”

“No, nothing like that,” she said, adding. “Nobody’s been in this place for ages, anyway. Where you off to? I can help.”

“To the countryside, in the southeast. It’s not on the map, so no chance you’d know where it is.”

“Well, good luck finding it, then.”

I thought she was leaving and checked my phone when she returned and said something that immediately caught my attention.

“Keep an eye out around here. You never know who you’ll run into.”

I stowed my phone and put on a half-hearted smile, thinking that the woman was trying to pull my leg or something. 

“Are you talking from experience or just trying to scare me, ma’am?”

“Both.”

“Guess I’m done for, then. Take care.” 

Without a reply back, she slipped away from view. Soon after, I felt a faint vibration in my pocket. The message came from none other than Mr Parker himself.

I sat up straight and leaned forwards, my brows furrowed as I wracked my brain. It was a mystery to me how he found my phone number given that we never exchanged our contact information.

The message was brief and to the point. He wanted me to hit him up. As I read the message again, my eyes darted back and forth across the screen, searching for clarity. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard before I dialled his number.

The phone rang incessantly, and just as I was about to hang up, a faint voice answered from the other end. As I replied, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the guesthouse up ahead. 

“Mr Jensen?”

“Throwing trays wasn’t sufficient, sir? How’d you—”

“Where are you, Mr Jensen? Please…”

With a moment of hesitation, I found myself nibbling on my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The elderly man spoke with a sense of urgency. His words tumbled out in a rush.

“Asgerald Hill.”

“Asger—you must leave! Right now! Mr Jensen? You must listen—”

“I must?”

Tired of being told what to do, I smirked. My adoptive parents, my psychiatrist, and even my fiancée, they all tried to tell me what to do. In the end, where did it take me? The last time they locked me up in the psychiatry ward, I was so close to death that I could taste it. No matter how many pills I took or how much love I received, this consuming force inside me remained uncured. 

“You- you don’t understand! The lock must stay sealed, the destroyed never be rebuilt and—”

A sneer spread across my face as I shook my head in disbelief. What kind of nonsense was this? What had I got myself into? 

“This is getting out of hand, Mr Parker. I’m hanging up.”

“Good Lord! If for no other reason, then for your own safety! You must listen!”

“I’m exhausted, Mr Parker. You know how that feels? All I want is some peace and nothing else…”

“You’ll end up dead!”

I let out a sigh. “Take care, sir. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

I took apart my phone and threw away the pieces, then leaned back in my seat and let out a deep breath. The chirping birds seemed to amplify the hollowness within, as if they were intentionally mocking me with their cheerful sounds.

Turning my head towards the foreboding mansion, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine as its watchful gaze seemed to bore into my soul.

A deep groan escaped my lips as a stabbing pain shot through my heart. There was something about this place that made my heart ache, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was or could be. Honestly, I didn’t want to remember. 

Stepping out of the car, the gravel beneath my feet crunched. I gazed up at the towering building again and felt my throat tighten and choke me out of breath.

The bed of flowers that lined the walkway was in full bloom, their vibrant colours dancing in the gentle breeze as I dragged my feet across the garden. The door creaked and echoed through the desolate hall as I crossed the threshold into the mansion.

My heart was heavy with a sense of foreboding. Memories from the past replayed in my mind like a relentless wave in the deep sea, forcing me to remember. My legs gave in to my distraught mind. Something rolled out of my pocket as I briefly lost my footing.

The broken doorknob stopped in front of the spandrel. I drew closer to the closet. What was this strange feeling creeping in? My heart raced and my palms grew sweaty as a surge of fear took hold of me. As I picked up the broken piece, I finally recalled why it looked so familiar. It was part of the closet door. 

I hesitated before opening the closet, fully aware that what lay beyond it would threaten my very existence and make the memories linger. But I had to know the truth. Only then could I cure my deteriorating mind. I completed the puzzle and twisted the doorknob. 

The closet stood wide open.

I dropped to both knees and stopped breathing. The mummified corpse of my dear mother came alive. A tow rope tightened around her bare neck and squeezed the life out of her. The brown strands of hair were all that remained of her former self. 

The moment I touched her hand, she crumpled to the floorboards before me. A cold shiver spread throughout my body. I too collapsed. As I lay there, beside her and gazed into her hollow sockets, I returned to the past and relived what everyone tried to shield me from. 

My deceased mother covered my eyes with what remained of her fingers as if to comfort me, and the world went dark and hazy. In the distance, I heard a car pull over and a shrill voice call my name. Then nothing. Just… silence.

I flew my eyes open. 

I now stood in the past, at a place that had once been forgotten but was now crystal clear in my mind. The spandrel closet. I reached out to her, but it was too late. Again. 

The clatter of the three-legged stool echoed throughout the empty hallway as my mother shoved it. Hanging, choking, dying. Her legs bore the marks of savage torture. I wrapped my tiny, child arms around her sprawling feet and stayed by her side until she grew stiff and cold.

I then grabbed a sharp knife from the kitchen and climbed the grating stairs to the second floor. As I followed the hallway to room nine, the creaking floorboards echoed through the guesthouse in a sombre melody.

A wave of anger washed over me as I entered the dark room, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. Pain and anguish took over me as my little sister’s vulnerable cries pierced the air and echoed off the walls.

At only six years old, Madeleine had already lost both her childhood and innocence to the wickedness of the world. The light that once shone in her eyes faded into a vacant stare, and I watched as it happened. But not that day. 

My father’s laboured breathing and the smell of alcohol in his breath hit me as soon as I cracked the door open. As he pulled my sister’s trousers down, something snapped inside me.

I lunged at him with every ounce of strength I had and stabbed him repeatedly. The blood cleansed my soul. A surge of freedom and empowerment replaced the pent-up emotions within. The metallic smell invaded my senses – even comforted me. It was over now. It was all… 

I met Madeleine’s eyes. She backed away from me, afraid, as if I were a monster. I put the bloody knife away and I drew her close. What I did next, I did for her. To save her from the miserable life that awaited her.

As I covered her misty eyes and slit her throat, I whispered a lullaby our mother used to sing to us whenever our father abused us. The bloody knife slipped from my grasp as she stopped kicking and shoving to break free. Still, I held her close and kissed her with my tears. What I did, I did to spare her from the life that now was mine. 

A hand reached into the past and pulled me out. As I shot my bloodshot eyes open, a scream escaped my lips, and I thrashed about, desperate to break free from whatever held me – refusing to let go of the past and carry on as if nothing had happened.

A punch landed on my cheek, and the ringing in my ears drowned out all sounds. I fell into silence and stared up. Mr Parker’s pale lips moved, but the only thing I could hear was the whisper of leaves in the breeze and my poor mother’s soothing lullaby in my ears. 

The weight of the world pressed down on me. My heart gave out. I took a final breath and turned to face the spandrel where the darkness beckoned me.

As the crimson rose in the unkempt garden, I too wilted away. The darkness of night no longer frightened me or choked me. The nightmare of my past was finally put to rest. 

Now I could sleep.

In the Walls

Photo by Pascal Meier on Unsplash

It’s only been a few weeks since I moved to this place. I’m already regretting it. The panelled walls are talking to me.

I should’ve listened to my sister and given this place up for sale. It’s in the middle of nowhere, in a dilapidated condition, and far from civilisation.

I thought I could fix up the shack and earn a profit on the margin. But things have been really odd these few days. It started with the tapping. I ignored the strange din at first. I tried to. I really did.

I worked my fingers to the bone trying to make this place work. My debt kept piling up. I was too deep into the mud to just succumb to my inane fears and make a break for it.

Then again, how could I know what awaited me? I was only human, made of dirt and composed of skin and bones. 

A hole in the peeling wall bothered me. It wasn’t there when I first got here. It gradually grew bigger. A perfect circle.

It would be a lie if I said I didn’t consider tearing down the whole thing. But I couldn’t. I tried, though. But whenever I made up my mind, something beyond the wall fixed its eyes on me. Through that hole. That massive black hole that beckoned me to challenge it. 

The whispers, however, were what really got to me. Man, that shit broke me! How do I put this without sounding crazy? Whatever it was, on the other side of the wall, it knew me.

I had these dreams, nightmares if you will, about these- these people I had never met before. They kept whispering the same thing over and over again like a broken record: ‘We come from the walls.’

My sister wouldn’t pick up her phone. I sent a message three days ago. I told her to pick me up, that I was scared to death and about to lose my damn mind.

Something about this place was off. It was as if I was cut off from the rest of the world and trapped in another dimension far from home and everything familiar.

I’ve been staring at the phone screen for hours, waiting tirelessly and rocking back and forth like a distressed child. The hole kept getting bigger. The whispers were louder now. I stopped sleeping. Hell, did I even breathe? 

Eyes. Several of them. Packed into that freaking hole! Those people, they talked with their eyes. They were trapped behind the crumbling walls and they watched my every move. 

I shouldn’t have come here. They were coming for me. I just knew it, I… Oh, god! I promised I’d buy Denise that doll on her sixth birthday and now I was—what were they gonna tell her? I recoiled and fixed my bloodshot eyes on the deepening hole.

Crawling backwards in a state of panic, towards the locked front door, a decaying hand stretched out from within the hole.

I clutched to the door and shut my eyes with a grimace, convulsing in place. The- the people in the walls escaped! I- I'm going to die! I'm going to die…? No! Oh, god, no! I don’t want to die here! I don’t—oh, god, please, I…

Hundreds of hands ripped my face off. 

When I flew my eyes open, the mouldering hands and the blinking eyes enclosed me from all directions. Profound darkness surrounded me. A single string of light shone through the narrowing hole. In the walls.