Drabble Wednesday: Abandoned

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.

~*~

  

Leftovers

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.

~*~

Dolly Dear

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 

Short Story Month of May

The month of May is Short Story Month, so I thought I would post a few random bits of short fiction this month in honour of the short story. First up is a a story I wrote for a prompt over on Facebook, I hope you enjoy it...

House of Wyndham

Would you like to know about Wyndham House on Sycamore Drive?

It imposes a presence over the neighbourhood, doesn't it? The house is old world architecture, with its stone façade and strong timbers, nestled at the far end of the street. It is tucked back from the asphalt, apart, but the house still looms in the minds of the area residents.

Why you ask? Because everyone knows its history, of course. Death seeps out of each pane, rafter and stone.

It started with the designer and builder of the house, Josiah Wyndham. He was the first to die, shot over his unfaithful wife in 1902. His murderer died next, apparently poisoned by Josiah’s wife, who confessed all in a letter before drowning herself in liquor and the bathtub.

Josiah’s oldest son inherited the house, but he died a year later at the hands of his youngest sibling, who stabbed him during a heated argument. After that, the house passed from relative to relative, all of whom died tragically. Eventually no Wyndham would go near the place and it sat abandoned for years, until it sold in 1922. And the legacy of the house continued for decades, bouncing between owners, deaths and realtors.

I've heard it said the house is cursed, that Josiah condemned it with his dying breath. Perhaps he did, but the real truth of the matter lies with the house itself. Somewhere, somehow the house is alive. Yes, alive. Not breathing, heart-beating alive, but aware nonetheless.

Don’t laugh, it’s true.

And worse, it collects people. All those poor souls that died within the walls of Wyndham House, well they never left. Their ghosts still roam the corridors and rooms, their phantom eyes still peer out the windows.

You may scoff, I wouldn't blame you. I scoffed too, before I bought the house, before I died here. I believe now, as the days turn to years and I keep wandering the house, as my spirit stays trapped and I welcome the newly dead to our ghostly ranks.

So welcome, you poor fool, to Wyndham House.