Penned in

Penned In
by Rohini Sundar

(2800 words)


First place in the "Ordinary Horrors Contest"



         The morgue was quiet…as though something terrible had swallowed up all the  noises and left behind deafening silence in its place. Jenny waited patiently for the detective-in-charge to return from inside. She had not been able to stay there any longer. It was enough that she had seen Stephen’s lifeless staring up at her with those flat grey eyes.
         The clickety-clack of footsteps pierced the silence, echoing off the outraged walls. The detective was here.
         Mrs. Moran, I’m sorry for your loss. Please come with me. I’ll get you your husband’s belongings,” he said, his face creased with polite concern.
         She followed him down the corridor, mindful of making very little noise with her sensible flat shoes, till they reached the outside office.How odd that he’d died first, she thought, distractedly taking the package of Stephen’s garments from the detective. She’d always thought that she would go first, that one day, when he squeezed her neck with those gnarled, knobby fingers in one of his rages, she’d mercifully die. That he would die before her, in a mundane road accident, had never occurred to her.
         Jenny went home in a taxi. The detective had suggested that he drop her back but she’d declined. She had wanted time alone for herself. She arrived home and unconsciously walked towards his study. Its silent emptiness echoed his absence…confirming his death.
         “Stephen is dead,” she said aloud, testing the words out, a little startled at their loud finality. Her heart surged…a little hesitant. Was it really possible? Was she finally free of him? She looked around the study, his favorite place in the house, the place where he spent most of his day, typing furiously into this computer or writing on reams and reams of paper till the day exhausted itself.
         She had never been allowed into this room, except to bring him coffee or when he himself summoned her. The latter she always dreaded. It meant that Stephen was either angry with her for something or just bored. Both moods meant the same for her. He always relieved boredom by teasing her unmercifully; pushing her around, hurting her till it brought tears to her eyes. His anger, of course, was different. It began quietly with controlled rage till it exploded, the room reverberating with his curses. Those were moments when he almost looked like a rabid dog, gone mad with disease, attacking her with a frenzy that left her trembling with terror, waiting for the battering to stop.
         She’d never been able to leave him. She knew he would kill her if she did. And now he was dead…dead and gone…leaving her free.
         “I’m free, you sick bastard…and you are dead, do you hear? You are dead--dead and gone, lying in a morgue,” she shouted into the malicious room, spitting out the words with the force of pent emotions.
         “Dead--dead--dead,” she continued in a litany, the words falling off her tongue with a life of their own, adding to her mounting hysteria. Without warning she scattered the neatly arranged papers on his desk with a sweep of her hand watching them fall to the floor.
         The ruined desk emboldened her. With sudden urgency, she began trashing his room. Books fell from the shelves, clattering upon each other, papers fluttered about, trying to escape her pent up rage. Bottles of ink and photographs fell onto the floor, paying the price for being silent witnesses.
         Finally the anger left her, spent amongst the lifeless remains of her husband’s life. Jenny sat down, her legs boneless, and wept in loud heaves for the woman she had once been, wept for the terror and dread that had shared her life, wept that he was finally dead. 
         Tears all spent, emotions drained; she gradually became aware of the waning day that slashed the room with its darkening shadows. She got up slowly like an old woman. As she weaved her way through the littered floor, her eyes fell on a wooden pen. She picked it up, holding it in her hands, feeling the texture of the wood through her fingers. It was a pen that Stephen had carved himself. Light beach-wood, the pen was like a caterpillar, with a series of bulbs flowing through it, ending in a clawed hand that curved forward.  Stephen had been proud of it, had said that it was the most comfortable pen for him made just for his hands.
         “I can snap you in two if I want to,” she said, rolling the pen in her hand. With a snicker mocking its helplessness, she walked out of the room, slamming the door to the study with a loud bang. I’ll make it my parlor…that would really get Stephen’s goat, she thought as she climbed her way up the stairs to her bedroom.
         She dropped everything on her bedroom carpet…her shoes, her bag and all her clothes in a heap. I’ll burn them all-all the dull lifeless skirts and prim button-up shirts that Stephen forced me to wear. With anticipation in her heart for the coming days, she soaped herself, reveling in the steady pour of water. A while later, she stepped out, refreshed and clean; she couldn’t wait to rid the house of Stephen’s things.
         As she stepped out of the shower stall, her eyes fell on the wash-stand.

         Stephen’s pen was propped against the tap, its clawed hand as though reaching for her!

         How did it get here? I had left it in the bedroom, she thought, her heart clutching her chest in a moment of terror.
         Don’t you go imagining things, she told herself. The pen couldn’t have walked up here now, could it? She must have unknowingly brought it here.
         Jenny grabbed the pen from the wash stand and walked out into the bedroom, towards the window that overlooked the garden below. Opening the shutters, she flung the pen away, as far as she could.
         “There you go, Stephen. Your precious pen is the first thing to go from this house,” she shouted into the night. Her hand ached with the force of throwing the pen, but it had felt good.
         A little later, dressed in an old pair of jeans and a sleeveless top (another rebellion against the dead Stephen), she walked down the stairs. She had decided to celebrate that night.
         I’ll make some pasta and open a bottle of champagne, she thought, a smile playing on her lips.
         She put on some country music (Stephen had never liked it) and began chopping tomatoes for the sauce while the pasta boiled away on the stove. She hummed along, sipping the chilled champagne occasionally, as she chopped.
         Suddenly the music stopped with a click. Don’t tell me the record player is misbehaving again, she thought.
         She put down the knife and walked towards the living room where the record player was.

         Lying there on top of the record player was the wodden pen!

         Jenny’s heart slammed inside her chest as though fighting to break out and run.
         How did the pen get here? I know I threw it out!, her mind shouted out, her eyes refusing to believe impossibility of the pen lying innocently on the record player. She staggered backwards, fear giving momentum to her frozen limbs.
         Just then, a gust of wind blew into the room from the open window causing the pen to roll from the record player onto the floor toward her.
         “Oh God!” she cried out, choking on her words, as she stumbled backwards away from the rolling pen.
         She was trembling now, fear dancing on her spine with a hundred spider legs. She waited, not knowing what to do next, not wanting to move…not able to move.
         Without warning, the pen flung itself against the wall on the far right and began scribbling –

I’m here Jenna…I’m back home

         Her eyes widened with terror. Only Stephen had called her Jenna…it was him…he’d come back from the dead! Jenny was hyperventilating now, the breath leaving her body in short gasps.
         The pen stood on one of the couches as though waiting for her reaction.
         “S-S-Stephen? I-I thought you were dead,” she stuttered, addressing the pen and its clawed hand. She could almost see the malicious smile on Stephen’s face as she heard the tremor of fear that gripped her tongue cruelly. He’d always enjoyed her fear.
         She began backing away from the pen, unconsciously shaking her head, unable to believe the horror of his return. She bumped against one of the side tables and the pen immediately turned to her, moving toward her by rolling along its length and hopping on its head. Panic shackled her to the spot.
         Reaching her, the pen threw itself against her and the clawed hand began scratching her face. Jenny flailed her arms about, trying to get the pen off her. Pain cut across her face as the pen began drawing blood with its wooden body.
         She cried in little whimpers, trying to swat it away from her face and eyes. A desperate hand made contact and managed to push the pen away. She stood there, tears running down her face stinging her cuts, breathing as though she had run a mile.
         Suddenly, recovering from her rebellion, the pen lying on the floor stood up on its point. Jenny stilled her breath at once and put her hands against her mouth, willing her tongue to remain silent. Somehow she knew that if she made even a single noise, the pen would find her and attack her again.
         Quiet Jenny…quiet. It can hear you, she told herself swallowing a moan.
         She quietly moved away, one eye on the pen, stealing glances behind her to make sure she didn’t give herself away.
         The clawed hand moved this way and that, as though trying to listen for her.
         Where are you Jenna? It scratched on the cream colored couch, the letters biting into the soft leather viciously.
         Jenny’s eyes widened, fear clutching at her throat. She backed away from the living room in hesitant silent steps. Sweat slithered down her neck, pooling into the V of her chest.
         Then, as she lifted her leg to take the next step, she felt spider-like hands clutching it. The bile in her stomach rose. Fearfully she looked down, unwilling to tear her gaze from the pen.
         Her toe had gotten snagged in the tassels of the floor rug.
         Bile subsided…
         She jerked her leg trying to free it from the clutch of the rug, yanking it repeatedly till it gave way in defeat. She looked up from the errant rug...the pen was gone! Her eyes darted around the room, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards in a nervous tic. Her teeth bit into her bottom lip as though warning them to keep silent.
         The silence in the room was closing in on her…pressing into her. She looked behind her, the ends of her eyes alert for any movement around. The swift caused the little pendant at her neck to bump against her collarbone with a little clink.
         It must have been listening for her. The very next moment it was at her neck jabbing its pointed head into the soft flesh. She screamed, her hand clutched around the bulbous pen trying to pull it off her. The pen held down with maniacal force and continued its jabbing...sinking into her neck repeatedly, marking her neck with little blood-oozing punctures.
         She fell towards the floor in a sudden movement and rolled away towards the wall, hugging its unyielding flatness for comfort. The pen, bent on the direction of its thrust, fell on the floor, clattering a few inches away from her feet.
         Jenny slowly pulled in her feet, hugging her knees to her chest, holding her breath lest the pen hear her at such short distance.
         The pen stood up supporting its linear form on its clawed hand this time. Then, as though it couldn’t bear waiting any longer, it whooshed upwards, and began circling the room in concentric circles, trying to find her.
         It doesn’t know you are not standing, she thought, clutching at the thought as though it were a lifeline. Hurry Jenny…it wont take long for it to figure out that you are probably crouching near the floor.
         Jenny stealthily backed out of the room on all fours while the pen continued its furious circling of the room. She winced a little when she heard the pen hit against a lamp shade, and then another. It was now flying all over, hitting against the tables and smashing all the plants and showpieces in the room.
         Jenny quickly got up to her feet, taking advantage of the chaos in the room. She hurried into the kitchen, the burning stench of the pasta belatedly warning of an evening gone horribly wrong.
         What can I do now? She needed something to defend herself. She began pulling out drawers, looking for something, anything that she could use.Her eyes fell on the knife lying on the counter top across her. As she reached for the knife, she stopped.
         Something was wrong, she thought, her senses screaming. And then she knew what it was. It was the sudden silence. The chaos in the living room had given way to a malevolent silence.
         Jenny peered towards the living room and watched in mounting horror as the pen rolled its way into the kitchen.
         Oh God, she thought, it knows I’m here!
         She looked around desperately for some way to escape the pen, her eyes falling on the oven. With sudden clarity, she knew what she had to do.
         With new found nerves, Jenny silently moved towards the oven, slowly lowering its door to reveal its blackened insides.
         The pen continued to roll around the kitchen, covering each and every corner in its search for her. Not finding her, it began scratching the tiled floor with its pointed tip, screeching with wild rage, making her teeth ache at the high pitched noise.
         Come on Jenny…you can do it, she told herself and filling her lungs with gulps of air, she tapped lightly against the side of the oven.
         The pen at once stopped its wild screeching and stood still, waiting to listen to for her again. Jenny bit the insides of her lips. It was a gamble. If the pen missed the target - she did not want to think of what would happen if she failed.
         Her heart was now beating painfully and she could feel her insides clench as she leaned towards the oven to tap against its insides.
         The pen was standing to attention, waiting for to hear her give herself away. It flew straight for her, slicing the air with its length, and launched itself at the source of the sound.
         It found her hand.
         As fast as Jenny had tried to pull it out of the oven, the pen had been faster. It tattooed a rapid beat into the back of her palm, repeatedly biting into her skin, punishing her for evading it for this long.
         Jenny cried out. It was like a hundred ants biting into her palm at the same time. Sweat poured down her face blurring vision. She gulped in air and, with strength born out of terror, she began shutting the oven door with her other hand.
         There was only a little strip open through which her hand lay inside the oven. It was now a bloody mass, throbbing with blood that flowed everywhere inside the oven. The pen stained in crimson, drenched in her blood, gleefully digging into her hand.
         Jenny willed herself to remain still, her arm trembling with the effort. Then, with a sudden jerk, she yanked her hand from the oven and slammed the door shut the rest of the way.
         She sank to the floor, her wounded hand cradled in the other, staring fearfully at the oven door. The pen, realizing that it was trapped inside, was drumming against the glass door, trying to break through.
         She turned the automatic oven on, twisting the gas control with her good hand. The oven gained life…flames danced…the pen tensed and began hitting the door faster, more desperate now.
         She watched the flames lick tentatively and then more boldly at the pen; she could almost hear the sizzle and pop of the wood being consumed by the heat.
         The oven burnt all night, burning and re-burning the ashes of the dead pen. Jenny sat motionless watching the pen being consumed by the unforgiving heat.
         ...it was a nightmare that had finally ended.

The End