The echo from the wall

It was a quaint old house located on the edge of the cliff, a little distance away from the village. The village folks, most of them fishermen, held a belief that it brought bad luck to those who did dare to reside within those walls. Were not most of the previous owners either in mental asylums or their graves by now?

"Pshaw!" said K, when he first heard of the eerie tales surrounding his new house. He was quite proud of the bargain which he struck and dismissed the villagers tales as blind superstition - the sort of tales that spring up in places where there is little entertainment save for the queer beliefs that people invent in order to keep their senses amused. Yes, he was quite proud of his new place. He stood at the entrance of the pathway leading to the main door; he twirled his thin pencil-like moustache and scratched his chin meditatively - a quiet little retreat in the middle of nowhere. His heart yearned deeply for some time away from the madness of "civilization" and the bustle of the city life.

The sun was setting, illuminating the sky with shades of orange and red, like the dim glow from a dying ember. The sea was whispering seductively, as though great secrets would be revealed to those who could decode those mysterious whispers. A slight drizzle had begun, prompting K to look up at the sky and feel the tiny little drops falling on his face. Clouds hung ominously low and it seemed to K that he could make out the faint outline of a dark skull and the slightest shiver ran down his spine. He recovered quickly, chuckling and shaking his head - with its arched eyebrows, long nose and lips that always expressed, though in a very mild almost undetectable form, a contemptuous sneer. Superstitions were for fishermen in the village, not for the educated and enlightened men of the world. Nonetheless, he walked inside, not wanting to stay outside and risk getting drenched in the rain. The sun had disappeared behind the hills in the distance and darkness reigned over the house.

K stared outside the window, glad that he didn't linger for the thin drizzle had already turned into a heavy downpour. Lightning flashed, lighting up his features momentarily - the cold glassy eye and sneer on his lips. He muttered some curses under his breath as he realized that the electricity was down; it'd probably take a day to fix in this remote spot. K placed the silver candlestick on the table and lit the candle with a match.

The flames danced to the tune of the wind and with it the curtains, the branches of a tree outside and the shadows on the wall; K watched the shapes float by. Every now and again he thought he caught the shape of a dark skull with bright eyes peep out of the darkness. He smiled sardonically. He then noticed another curious occurence - faintly at first, but growing louder, oh ever so slowly, there was a sound emanating from the wall. It was a strange sound, almost like the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. No that wasn't it. It sounded more like something soft and alive was knocking was against its confinement, yearning to be set free. "Much like the dead in a coffin" he though savagely at yet laughed at the very thought.

The laughter was cut short when he realized that the sound grew louder and softer as the flame grew brighter and dimmer. The coincidence seemed to be very very odd. He felt his pulse quicken and quietly he shut the windows hoping the flame would cease to flicker. In the heavy silence that followed K could hear his own heart-beat. Worse! A thousand times worse! He could hear his heart beat echoing the sound in the wall as though they were one. K refused to be betrayed by his senses. He was a man of reason, a man of education, as he kept telling himself and yet the hairs at the back of his neck stood erect. A creeping, crawling vague dread clutched his heart against his own will.

His hand began to tremble and nervously he ran his fingers through his hair giving him the dishevelled look of a mad man. He fidgeted nervously in his chair, his eyes fixed on the wall where the outline of a dark skull could be made out amidst the shadows. It seemed to be laughing at him as cold sweat drenched his brow. Every time the flames flickered and dimmed, it seemed the sound in the wall subsided and his heart-beat come to a near stand still.

K lit a match instinctively to re-light the flame just as it was about to snuff out. A queer thought entered his mind - that his heart would stop beating should the flame die down. That his lfe was tied inexplicably to the candle flame. Blindly he groped the drawers for the stack of matches, his eyes transfixed on the wall. He was certain the skull was mocking him now; mocking his disbelief and helplessness. With horror he listened to his own heart beat reverbrating from the wall - now louder, now softer. He knew that at all costs he must not let the flame die down. He'd re-light the flame just as it seemed to be on the verge of extinguishing. So he lit another match; and soon another...

The villagers found him the next day, sitting on the edge of his chair, as though about to rise; with eyes wide open and staring at the wall and lips curled into a twisted cry of despair that was terrible to look at. All around him, matches were strewn on the floor. All were burnt save one - the match he clutched in his fingers.