Today on Drabble Wednesday, I showcase the horror in the things we leave behind…
Secrets Behind the Shutters
Flapping in the wind of the oncoming storm, the shutters of the abandoned house rattled and thumped. Bang! Bang! The loud and violent cracks shattered the interminable silence that surrounded it, and something inside the house shuddered. This thing shifted, a black void coiling around itself.
The walls of the house imprisoned it, existence bound by rotting wood and broken glass, and its own fear. It swallowed the interior within impenetrable darkness, no light passed beyond the windows; not in, nor out. It lived only as a consequence, birthed by hate and blood, doomed to haunt this spot for eternity.
The rusted old truck, a relic even before the Fall, waited on the broken asphalt as the night closed in around it. A light dusting of snow gathered over its metal frame, as the first flakes of winter tumbled from the sky.
Its owner parked in a hurry, motor still running, rushed to pack up and leave before the calamitous world and its horrors caught up with him. The old faithful truck waited through the night and the next day, waited until its motor sputtered and its gas tank bled dry.
And there it remained.
No one was coming back.
The doll sat on a trunk in the attic, her porcelain face cracked, moth holes and stains marring the fabric of her dress and its lace yellowed with age. No one played with her anymore. She was forgotten. What she witnessed was forgotten.
Yet, she remembered.
Her memories burned with images, the horror her unblinking glass eyes saw that day. Her beloved child killed. Slashed and savaged, cast off blood soaking into the doll’s dress. Those memories made her tremble.
That’s why she liked the attic, so quiet and peaceful. Here the doll could remember good times, not the horror…
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved