The Fear

Whispers in the dark haunt the mansion’s rooms. Fear of the unknown, the hidden, make for a good scare, a good story, one which, if told with the right voice and face, could make a child shiver into a strangling nightmare. What of this unknown is so frightening? The very fact that it is unknown. People who walked by the abode found themselves looking back, as if to see where a sound come from, find the mysterious source of that uncanny pressing presence. They find themselves sitting at their dinner tables, eating moderately, quietly, and there, in that silence they think, they think of that house that haunting house: it creeps into their thoughts, sits there, mockingly and with this image accompanies the sound of no sound: fear is what they feel; pure fear. They go to sleep, closing the doors and windows.

Those unfortunate souls having passed the haunted mansion dive into sleep. Innocent in nature, the dream takes its usual course, meddling with the boundaries of reality, forming a fantasy, an adventure, until it hits a dead end where it falls into dismay: the nightmare begins. The house is back, the silence is pressing, piercing as the wolf’s cry. Terrible fear, trembling wits, the unlucky individuals find themselves reaching for an escape, a handle to a door, a rope to be pulled out of the crashing cold waters, a hand; but, to their dismay, the handle crumbles to dust, the rope snaps, and the hand is attached to the monster with no face.

The fear unresolved, the mansion untouched, the poor souls left to rot, nothing has been done, nothing can be done, at least, not until one finds the courage to face the unknown, tackle its invisible tentacles of entanglement.