Things as Such

Things as Such.

I.

Shingles lie about in the tangled, unkempt lot, scattered with no sense of order;
A wind blows through its trestles; its skeletal appearance thins the blood even colder-
Colder than the October chill that clenches lungs as though with chains and fogs your breath. 
The windows; stare out at you with a vacancy; silent and as hollow as death.


The cobblestone foundation takes on a greenish hue, and is no doubt cool to the touch.
You can hear scratching sounds, but maybe it is just limbs grating against the roof.  Perhaps it is that… and perhaps it is things as such.
The light from the moon plays tricks with your eyes and changes the foundation’s color… not green, but something eerily making you think of blood.
Whatever it is, the feeling of being watched-eyes smoldering a hole into your very, insignificant existence- bring back the tales of this house like a raging flood


The elder of the town folk have warned all that ask about her, all suggested at her curse;
And yet here she stands before you; an eyesore for what seems like centuries.  Looking at her now, you can’t tell which is worse-
The run-down appearance she has, or the fear that lays within your quickened heart, the fear that suggests that you may never breathe beyond this numbing night nor make it out quite right.
And of course there is the myth of all myths as they mentioned the stories of The Mansion’s past, where fellow explorers have died after hearing three knocks in the waning hours of the night.


The lumber, which served as the porch in better days, is rot and crumbles to bits at touch;
WAIT! What is that noise? Could it have been the wind?  Perhaps it is that… and perhaps it is things as such.
The stench of the blackened soil beneath the floorboards smell of copper and mildew,
Distracted you think of the noise you heard, mayhap it was just a shutter, flapping to and fro, screeching on its hinges; askew. 


Never mind that, it may just be the threads of fear coming from the loose ends of the stories that you have heard.
For nearly three decades, the door stands ajar; warped throughout the years of the humidity hanging in the air, has never been entered-
Gather your courage, dear friend, and continue forward.  Try as you must, but you will not succeed in attempting to dilute the rumors shrouding this deadly house.
Just remember the last unfortunate soul that entered back in ’74, he resided at Shipper’s Creek,** and until his death he stayed as meek as a labatory mouse.

Approaching the door, your temples thump in agony and a stab of pain throbs from between your eyes.
You can taste metal in the back of your throat, and it surely doesn’t help to think that you may be the first to never cross the threshold; to just kneel over from fright and die.

You’ve heard about all of the deaths that came from the burnings by the hearth, the slips, and the terrible falls;
They say a lot have been killed inside.  Some near the fireplace’s hearth, but the tragic deaths have all came from the knocking from the staircase or deep within the master bedroom’s walls.


Terrible things have taken place in there my friend, dear sweet Tayro, and you should heed your heart and not go inside.
Will you die painlessly you may be wondering, perhaps with not much more than a whimper and with all hope thrown aside?
Your feet betray your fears, and before long (you may not know it) your feet will become your crutch.
You could survive, God grant that, it is possible.  And then of course you could be one of the infamous few that that die from the horrid knocking the town folks mention. Perhaps it is that… and perhaps it is things as such.

(**Shipper’s Creek is a Nut House)


II.


Once inside what used to be a coat closet, darkness envelopes you and fear suffocates your lungs of all breath once again.

Your feet, just seconds before easily moved, turn into pillars of concrete.  You look around, trying to adjust to the blackness of the tiny room and your mind wanders at what lies in the darkness within.

Your hand, reaching out to steady yourself; to calm the vertigo, finds a wall; long since void of its paint.

Your hand brushes across an old coat long forgotten by a past visitor.  The rotting feel of the cloth almost is that of skin, and soon the vertigo nears a point of faint. 




It was a mistake to come here, dear Tayro, a mistake indeed.

As you begin to adjust to the darkness level, you take in your surroundings with a sudden zest.  Further into the depths of The Mansion you mistakenly proceed. 

Down one hallway, through a set of French doors, you find yourself in the living room.

The furniture, old and mildewed is covered with decades of dust.  Nearby, your attention falls upon the staircase, and the beginning of your impeding doom.




On the banister, you trail your fingers while climbing stair by stair.  They creak restlessly, threatening to break under the years of abuse and the unaccustomed weight.

If you had been paying attention to the banisters, you’d had noticed the ancient ruin that was hidden beneath the years of dust.  But, as you hear the first knock, it is already to late.

Stopping, in the middle of the staircase, listening to The Mansion creak and settle into her foundation, you try to think, you try to tell yourself to run, but you really can’t even get out that much.

Outside the wind is blowing hard, you can hear it whistle in The Mansion’s trestles.  Your feet, again refusing to move, turn to mush when a second knock came from just a few steps above, on the landing just around the corner.  Perhaps it was just a shutter banging in the wind.  You can tell yourself that.  Perhaps it is that… and perhaps it is things as such.



Looking at the landing, just above a few broken stairs, Tayro screams.  She drowns in her hopes that everything is okay… that everything will work out.  She never heard the third knock before her heart gave up its fight, but her last thoughts were the final touch:

KNOCK!
KNOCK!
KNOCK!
And rat’s paws climbing their way up your back… cool to the touch.






Author's Note: 

A bit strange, eh?!  Hope you enjoyed

Eric DeLee