The Closet

This is my first exercise using a writing prompt from this website. We’ll see what happens. The goal here is to continuously write without worrying about the quality. What do I know about horror stories?

The prompt: “A strange noise is coming from the closet. Should you open it and explore?”

         It was my second full night in the house of my inheritance – a massive thing built of stone and ancient wood. The exterior boasted impressive gothic architecture for a place of its size. Wide mock buttresses graced either wing, pulling the building into focus, sweeping up, up to a pinnacle of an attic.
         I took the master bedroom on the third floor. Below the old house was filling day by day with boxes. My belongings, paltry and few, seemed swallowed by the immensity of the place. I felt myself a mote of dust floating listlessly through its halls.
         My suitcases were not yet unpacked, and I resolved to remedy that presently. With great effort I plopped the first on the bed. The bed was a massive thing – red velvet and gold between solid oak posts that stretched toward the high ceiling. By armfuls I removed stacks of clothing and set them neatly in piles on the mattress. I emptied the first suitcase and did similarly with the second.
         On the far wall stood a massive armoire with evil carvings. It was tall, perhaps seven feet high, set about with twisted faces and winged creatures with fangs jaws. I loaded my arms with clothing, nonetheless, and prepared to fill it. Stretching out with my free fingers I reached for a great iron handle bolted to one door.
         I stopped short. I could hear, suddenly, the light sound of some distant violin. I stood still in an effort to pluck the little noise from the air.
         I did. The source of these apparitious instrumentations was within the armoire itself! I took several steps back and clutched my stack of clothing. In only a few moments I regained my composure. Surely, I thought, there must be some rational explanation. Smoothing out the folded clothes, I stepped slowly toward the closet and again reached my free fingers to the iron handle.
         The violin continued, in barely perceptible, but in dreadful and menacing tones. Closer I stretched and, nearly touching the iron, felt a cool breeze at the tips of my fingers – cold, damp air coursing through the crack between the doors.
         With held breath, I grasped the handle and swung the right door open.
         Black nothing did I find. An empty wooden armoire. Electricity jumped down my spine for an instant and I shook off the sensation. An empty closet. No sound. No cool breeze. Surely, my imagination had gotten the best of me. I loaded the armoire, quietly put my suitcases on the floor, and crept into bed.
         That night I dreamt I was descending a damp, stone staircase – orange light flickering on the glistening grey walls. The staircase opened at the bottom onto a wide hall, stretching out into thick fog. In the distance, the ominous screeching of a violin which I, though knowing better, felt compelled to pursue.
Pursue it I did. The fog soon gave way to thick stone columns stretching to either side beyond the limits of my sight. The air grew thick and sweet. In time, I came to an underground channel, some twenty feet wide, black and stagnant. I reached into the water with a few fingers, finding it quite warm to the touch. Withdrawing them, I noticed a thick, dark residue. Red! This was a channel filled with blood!
         Behind me torches, previously unseen, lit themselves in sequence on the stone pillars – first those nearest than each behind and to either side in rapid succession with a great whooshing sound. I spun instinctually to observe. Soon the entire hall was lit with bright yellow light, and from deep in the fog in front of me a dark figure appeared. Tall and cloaked in great swathes of black fabric that billowed at the call of some unseen wind, it crept toward me. I stood, watching, immobilized with fear.
         The figure came upon me, hooded and silent. Slowly it lifted a bony hand to my chest, flattened its palm and rested there above my rapidly beating heart. Within its hood was an impossible darkness, impenetrable even by the light of these uncountable torches. Cool air whistled out from it and brushed against my face.
         Without warning the foul thing pushed and I was falling backward into the bloody channel, unable to hold my balance! I hit the syrup thick water with a great splash and began to sink. Hands were upon me – dozens of grasping, terribly strong hands clutched at me, pulling me down farther and farther! In an unconscious motion I opened my mouth wide to scream and was filled with the heavy taste of copper and iron.
         I twisted my body forcefully in the weightless dark and found myself suddenly in bed, soaked through with sweat. I reached one slippery hand through the darkness and flicked on a bedside lamp.
         I froze and noticed my fingers around the lit switch. My eyes moved slowly up the length of my arm and down my torso to my legs. There was no sweat, but indeed my skin was glistening and crimson. The bed, too, was soaked clear through.
         I leaped out of bed and splashed onto the floor! Blood up to my ankles, rushing around them warm and quick!
         Then I saw the source of it – a deep red waterfall from the between the armoire’s heavy, open doors. I rushed to the closet to force them shut, waterline now up nearly to my knees. My full weight was thrust against them, pushing desperately through the bloody cascade. No use! A great gush burst forth from the closet and cast me across the room, slamming into the far wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.
         The blood rose, quickly filling the master suite. Again I screamed beneath the black water, and again the taste of metal assaulted my tongue.
         Then I sat up, awakened a second time, soaked in sweat. I reached for the lamp, casting its glow across a still and empty room.
         ‘Just a dream,’ I murmured to myself.
         I crept to the side of the bed and dropped both feet slowly to the floor, finding it perfectly dry. Just a dream, I thought again. Slowly, I shuffled over to the armoire, opened it gently. Cool air rushed out and stung my still sweaty face. A dim light fell from the open doors and into the master suite, splashing my thin and blurry shadow across the floor.
         I stepped inside, closing its heavy doors behind me, held my breath. I planted one bare foot onto the first cold, stone step and prepared to descend.