The House

The scream had barely escaped Susan’s lips as she hit the ground. Scrambling to her feet she ran, white hot pain searing across her dirty, bloody palms, her feet pounding solidly against the gravel.

  This morning had started like such a normal day – the sun had risen through the inky blackness making frost sparkle and the few remaining birds in the English October sing, and, of course, pushing its way forcefully through the bedroom curtains of teens throughout the country.  For most, October 26th brought with it a week of blissful relaxation from school, but, unlike most, Susan had elected to stay behind from the traditional family holiday. It was for many reasons really - to catch up on school work, to look after Jack the terrier and to write her poetry in peace.

  However, most of the time alone had so far been spent doing the endless list of chores her Mother had left her while what was left of the British summer evaporated outside. Luckily however those chores where now done, the fish fed and the plants watered. So Susan wasn’t going to laze in bed while inspirational opportunities flew by outside.

  She dressed quickly, a simple white dress with her hair, as always, tied back – today with a piece of baby pink ribbon she had found while cleaning the study. She paused to check her reflection in the wardrobe mirror - a few terracotta strands of hair were escaping from the ribbon and dancing sleepily in front of her turquoise eyes. She brushed them back, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. The bathroom was always unnecessarily cold in her opinion, with the door kept staunchly shut at all times, and often she could see her breath rising as mist when she went to the loo at night. It was a relief to be out and Susan soon found herself bundling up a blanket to lay down on the grass as she wrote.

  The sun was still bright in the sky and Susan laid the blanket down neatly and smoothly before stretching out on its patchwork, making sure first the outside door was closed so that Jack the terrier couldn’t destroy the sofa while she worked. It was a lazy day, the birds now in full tweet and the last of the butterflies danced upon the brilliant autumn blossom as she closed her eyes to think of what she would write. The sun was warm, soothing. Jack was nuzzling her feet. Something original to write, of course, but what? Tales of far of princes and lands of never-never, sea lions and penguins making unlikely friends, maybe something about gentle buzzing of bees and quiet, soft sounds of running water...

She awoke with a start. It was nearly dark now, the lazy sun gone and replaced with the cold moon which seemed to be rising from the horizon as she stared. A yawn whispered its way through her lips as she brushed the sleep out of her eyes. She got up, stretched, and looked around her. Something had scrumpled up her patchwork blanket – probably a result of an evening wind – and a corner of it lay floating in the pond. Getting onto her knees on the grass, Susan peeled the sodden blanket away from the floor and felt her toes squidge into the grass.

  “Ergk”, Susan whispered – she had apparently not only missed wind but also a short shower – which was odd as it was only her knees and feet, having been on the floor, which appeared to be wet. She got to her feet, confirming to herself the writing tonight was a lost cause, and walked towards the door – Jack already obviously in. Given half the chance he would never be out on a night this cold and as mist was already rising from Susan’s lips he would certainly have scarped inside already, although Susan scolded herself mentally for leaving the door open – if Jack had wrecked anything it would be her fault. She stepped in and spun to close and lock the door with a satisfying click, slipping slightly with her muddy feet, and made her way up to the bathroom. On passing the living room she thought it curious the lights were already on, but in all fairness they might’ve been on since last night, and hadn’t been noticed because of the brightness of the day – in her dreary state of half-sleep anything could explain that, her only thoughts to not fall on the slippy mud-prints Jack had brought in and to steady herself on the wall and banister on the stairs. Her tiredness even made the lights in living room flicker, oddly, as if someone were moving around in there – again though, when you were tired, lights did play tricks on you.

  The landing was warmer than downstairs had been, and as she entered the bathroom and clicked on the fluorescent light overhead she took in the warmth and sighed. Running the warm tap, she splashed water onto her face and hands, enjoying the sensation... Until she heard a bang downstairs. Blood rushed to her face as she suppressed a scream, until she realised Jack hadn’t been fed yet and was no doubt scrambling for leftovers in the bin. Feeling silly, she turned.

  This time she did slip, slamming her eyes shut from the shock and only just steadying herself on the handle of the shower. And it was then in the darkness of her own eyes she noticed something was wrong. Very wrong. The bathroom door had been open. And was that a rustling in the hall? Why were the lights on downstairs - they never were - and the backdoor... Her eyes flicked open.

  The fluorescent lights made the rubies that danced off the blood evermore threatening, evermore pressing. For the second time that night, she fought against the irresistible urge to scream. Looking down she saw the knees in her dress, now pink, and her feet, from ankles downwards, covered in thick, icy cold, red gunge.  Slowly, she walked towards the bathroom door. She braced herself to look down the stairs, to see something, somebody, standing there, staring at her with piercing eyes.

  But there was nothing.

  She edged, her back to the door, to her room –where her mobile lived. Entering, she shut the door as quietly as she could and collapsed onto the bed in a fit of fright. She tried to think, but nothing came but blind panic. “There’s somebody in the house, there’s somebody in the house”, Susan thought wildly as she grabbed a glass of water that she always kept at the side of the bed to try and calm her nerves. Racking her brains she thought. The backdoor was now locked, which meant whoever it was was now locked in with her. Her breath quickened. The footsteps were definitely in the hall. Looking wildly around she grabbed her phone, but whimpered as the phone only coughed up a message saying “Low Battery”. The middle step on the stairway creaked. The glass in Susan’s hand slipped through her fingers and shattered over her now-frozen feet. Desperately trying to hide herself, she grasped at the shards in the carpet, and heard the door handle squeek as it turned.

The wardrobe door had barely shut in time and Susan squeezed the glass so tightly it caused her to feel fresh blood dripping down onto her bare legs. Yet her hands were strangely numb, the low shuffling outside the thin wood had done that - along with the heavy, steady breathing. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard the door handle click once more. Now she had two options – stay and hide, waiting to be found by somebody (but when, she didn’t know), or run. Run seemed the sensible option, waiting here was like waiting to die – at least running she would feel like something was being done. So slowly, and very slowly, so as not to make a single sound, Susan opened the wardrobe door. She threw the glass back into her hidey-hole, and searched around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Her eyes locked on a thick, heavy bound book – a hardback copy of Stephen King’s “IT”. Holding it as firmly as she could with her fresh cuts, Susan pressed her ear to the door. Darkness, and the faint ticking of a downstairs clock. Carefully, she pressed down on the bronze handle of the door, and opened it by a slither to peer out.

  There was an eerie glow cast across the staircase – one of the lights must have blown – which caused odd and distorted shaped to leap out onto the blood soaked floor and lick at the walls. But it seemed quiet. So slowly, very slowly, size 4 feet stepped onto the first, uppermost step – the metallic smell oddly disguised by another scent that seemed strangely floral. Her feet seemed to make no noise on the dampened carpet and the bottom step was soon won - with still no sound apart from the occasional stir that echoed out of the living room door. Nearly to the bottom, Susan took her foot off the step. It was in that same instant a definitive hissing sound erupted somewhere above the hall. Susan tried to turn on the spot and realised, too late, that it was merely the automatic air freshener that shocked her, that caused her to lose her footing and land - with a bang - at the bottom of the stairs.

  Pain cut through her hands as the book sprung out from between them and splinters of glass pushed deep into her palms, but a clearing sense of purpose had filled her. Wincing through the pain, Susan grabbed the backdoor handle with all her might as heavy footsteps thudded against the carpet in the next room. It wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t move. Screams tried to escape her lungs but she couldn’t draw breath to make sound. Wheeling around madly she ran towards the front door, past the living room door which swung open as she fled past, and threw her might against the silver handle. It burst open – mercifully unlocked – and she hit the cold outside twilight like a solid wall. Freedom. Free.

The scream had barely escaped Susan’s lips as she hit the ground. A rough, cold wet hand grasped at the back of her dress as she met the deep sunset. But the scream had brought back her voice, and with it a kind of sincere clarity. Scrambling to her feet she kicked hard at the hand and pushed herself off the ground, white hot pain searing across her dirty, bloody palms, her feet pounding solidly against the gravel path that lead away from the house.


Words: 1807