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 |   Blog created for the WDC 21st Birthday Blog Bash plus many sundry stories. |
| Dead People The house did not look all that daunting when Randle first approached. Yes, its reputation for being haunted gave it a certain gravitas and the night was suitably lit by a moon shuttered by clouds, the hour late. But it lacked the gothic design that traditionally gave rise to such auras. It was old, perhaps as early as Victorian, but sensible and without the required crumbling towers and frowning balconies. There were patches of peeling paint and the garden was overgrown, yet the overall impression was of neglect rather than supernatural possession. So it was a confident Randle that strode on to the porch. He knocked on the door, in spite of the fact that, by all accounts, the house was unoccupied. The noise of his rapping sounded dull and deadened, as though it could not travel far into the space behind the door. Slightly surprised at this unresponsive result, Randle waited a minute before trying the handle. It turned, grating on its bearing. Randle pushed at the door and it swung, grudgingly, inwards. The interior was dark and he thumbed the switch on the flashlight. A beam of light illuminated a wooden floor, dusty and clearly untrodden for years. He stepped inside. The door, that had been so reluctant to open only seconds before, swung shut. It seemed the house had decided that he should stay a while. That served Randle’s intent and he guided the flashlight beam on a tour of the space he had entered. It was an entrance hall with a staircase directly in front of him. There was a door in each of the walls to his left and right, both closed. The lobby continued alongside the stair in two passages too dark for Randle to see into. All was completely unfurnished with signs of decay in places where the wallpaper gaped from the walls and cobwebs hung from the moulding. Randle turned to his right and tried the door. It opened easily and he stepped into a room illuminated by the moon shining through a window. It was full of people, all standing, silent, and staring at him. Surprised by the sight, Randle could say nothing at first. But, when the silence continued, he felt he had to break it somehow. “Excuse me, I thought the house was unoccupied,” he said, unable to think of anything more appropriate. The crowd merely swayed slightly in response, as though moved by the breath of his speaking. The silence gathered again. Randle was aware that things were not quite right. The silence was strange enough but what were all these people doing in this room? And there was something odd about their appearance. They were somehow insubstantial. Not transparent, as such, but not completely opaque either. The word “ghosts” drifted through his mind. “Who are you?” he asked. Several heads turned to look at each other and then returned their stare to Randle. One of them opened his mouth, a dark, empty void in the pale glow of his face, and spoke in a quiet, emotionless voice. “We belong to the house.” “You mean you own the house?” Again the faces looked briefly at each other before turning to Randle again. The speaker intoned, “Once, years ago, we did. But now the house owns us.” Randle was beginning to regret the dare that had brought him there. The conclusion was implicit in the words of the speaker but Randle asked anyway. “You mean I see dead people?” The figures swayed again, as though Randle’s words were somehow offensive to them. The speaker nodded slowly and, raising an arm towards Randle, passed a hand through his face. The act convinced Randle. The cold of that touch, the deep freeze of its passing through his flesh, the way it remained as a cold presence that seemed unlikely ever to leave, these were sufficient. “Icy dead people,” he said. “And you have come to join us,” returned the speaker. “You feel its beginning and the process is spreading through you right now.” He paused then as Randle felt the fingers of ice working from his face, down into his neck and so to his chest. “It will not be long,” continued the speaker. Randle looked again at the crowd. “I see, dead people,” he said. Word count: 715 For “13,” 10.19.24 Prompt: “I see dead people.” — Cole Sear, The Sixth Sense. |
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