| Fiction |
“Memoirs of a Whispering House”
by Kevin Steele
Part IV
Christian awoke on the floor of the dilapidated kitchen,
spittle pooling at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t
been aware that he’d fallen asleep-- maybe I just
passed out. The feeling that he’d simply lost
consciousness did not sit well with him.
He suddenly became aware of the
smothering gloom in the house. Oh Shit! I’ve gone
blind! Maybe it was some kind of stroke or...
Christian remembered the carafe of red liquid and the
coppery meat he’d devoured earlier. Oh god, it must
have been drugged or maybe it was just bad.
Christian refused to believe that whomever was behind
this elaborate hoax-- I swear if it’s Oz I will gut
him, devour his entrails then feed them to him after
I’ve shit them all over his fucking carpet-- would
drug or poison him. Most likely the food and drink had
simply spoiled and he scarfed them down in a raging bout
of hunger. Christian’s stomach gurgled its agreement.
Christian realized he hadn’t lost his
vision once he became aware of the pale shafts of
moonlight shimmering through the boarded windows. In
fact, his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as if it
were perhaps late afternoon. But it can’t be,
everything is still blue and it was pitch-black a minute
ago. He’d remembered there occasionally being nights
that the moon blazed nearly as bright as the sun, but
this seemed different somehow-- the inkiest shadows were
only blue-ish greys and the illuminated surfaces of each
object seemed to shine as if coated in glow-in-the-dark
paint.
A muffled sound from the other room
sent Christian barreling through the kitchen door-- this
time wary of avoiding the back-swing. He stopped
suddenly in the center of the dining room to see if he
could hear another sound, perhaps figure out the origin
of the noise. He tilted his head to one side and assumed
a slightly crouched posture, as if preparing to run or
fight. Maybe someone, or something, is in here with
me.
The creeping dread tickled
Christian’s neck and lower back again but he suppressed
it. This time, he was determined to ferret out the
nuisance that was causing him so much torment. After
all, it’s my house and I don’t need anybody fucking
around in it. Damn kids trying to spook ME? Don’t they
know who I am? Christian raised from his defensive
posture and stood bolt-upright, his cheeks flushed and
expression almost comical-- What the hell did I just
say?
Christian was not quite so concerned
with his talking out-loud to himself-- “Most creative
people do it”, my mom told me once...but she still
looked at me like I was crazy-- so much as what he
had said. Why did I say it’s MY house? He
dismissed it as a Freudian slip, or whatever, and
listened again for any alien sounds.
Christian momentarily recalled the
children that had mocked him from the backyard. He
remembered how they ran and cavorted like malicious,
little demons. No, like floppy-eared bunnies and
chubby, cotton-ball sheep. He also remembered the
oldest boy that chased his smaller playmates like a
wolf, and how it stared directly at me like a hungry
predator-- how it recognized me for what I am.
A bright glow and booming laugh
snapped Christian out of his daze, and he bounded into
the den across the foyer. The antiquated television’s
bubble-shaped screen glowed an eery green, a macabre
cartoon playing across its face-- a little mouse ran
through a painted-glass forest as a licorice-whip ghost
cackled and clawed in heated pursuit. The quality of the
cartoon was grainy and warped-- perhaps early
Fleisher-- lending to its disturbing presence in the
until-now lifeless house. Christian felt hypnotized by
the drama before him. He didn’t feel any concern for the
cringing, now-trapped rodent but rather an affinity for
the slithering bogey that suddenly gobbled down the
helpless little boy. The swirling, black ghost turned
his gaze at Christian-- now trembling and wide-eyed with
tears of unprecedented emotion. The distorted features,
blackhole eyes and bowie-knife teeth filled the screen
and bled into the air.
“You will see me,” the boogeyman said
with a voice like broken glass scraped across a
chalkboard-- or a nightingale ground through a
wood-chipper. Christian didn’t notice the tickle was
almost gone.