A Short Story and an Experiment in Literature.

Bang…over goes the tea, so tired staring forever at the screen, his face resting on his hand as his eyelids gave up, the elbow had rammed the mug, knocking earl grey everywhere, all over the notes, made upon the history of his new house. The history fascinated him and had him up all night. Rumours and fates of Gothic fantasy intertwining the lives of the occupants over time. Stories of hauntings, the devil and so on, a non believer himself he thought it entertaining for guests. Returning to his senses, standing up in mild fury, he reached for an old kitchen-cloth that lived under his desk and began to mop up the substance, contemplating another trip through his drafty old house , down to the coldest kitchen in the world.
Radio 3 politely hummed along. Rachmaninov, dee dum dee dum deee..- crash – dum dum dee; “crash? “.
The music played on but a sound of mild chaos had reverberated from downstairs, echoing somewhat within his head. Robert was naturally brash, he knew the house was empty, it was his new home and he was continually learning new sounds as the 16th century structure wobbled about in the wind and altered with the temperature.
He knew this one was different, just as a captain knows the movements of a vessel, either the place was falling down or something was downstairs. Frozen he listened on; dee dum dee dum…again crash! His head darted about his study to an oak set of drawers. Walking over he removed his shot gun and from a box he loaded two cartridges placing another in his trouser pocket and closing the drawer.
His study door was a jar. He squeezed through fearing the results of the whining floor boards, silently he crept down the corridor avoiding the loose boards as if playing a slow game of hopscotch, eventually confronting the top of the stairs. Beneath him lay 13 tight, wooden steps. He listened.
He considered the preposterousness of a wanderer meeting a man 13 steps up with a shotgun in the dark. He knew he couldn’t be too careful. He had heard stories. Slowly he crept down until he found himself in the hall. A faint whisper could be heard coming from the courtyard behind the door. He crept up until his ear met the edges of the closed oak door, the draft whistled as it hit his ear, broken by the faint whisper. Adamant upon an intruder poking around his uninsured abode he took a step back, lifting the gun to his eye and with the left hand he twisted the catch and slammed back the door.
“who’s there…present yourself I am armed” not the brightest thing to tell an equally frightened intruder he thought. Sharply aiming left and right he scanned the courtyard, the silence made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, the only movement was the mist of his breath, his adrenaline pumping through him inducing a state of intoxication by fear. Robert wasn’t the type to be proven wrong and sure of his senses he stepped forward to get a look behind the two oak trees that filled the old courtyard.
Silence.
The wind had dropped unlike the gun which he held as tight as he could. He turned around, his lungs releasing his breath,his hunched shoulders subsiding. Suddenly a cry leapt out from the corner and up again went the gun. A cat jumped from behind a bin. Hasty to make his way back, his eyes latched on to the door before; bang!…. he felt a knock and his eyelids shut on a dissipating vision of the dark night sky.
The next day Robert awoke in bed with blood on his head, half expecting someone to enter his room and explain what had attacked him, he waited. An hour passed and he assumed everyone must be busying themselves about the house. He decided to set about finding them, it was to his dismay to find the house completely empty, no note left, nothing altered and the fires all burnt out. Frantically he set about blasting through his phone book for answers, calling everyone he could which merely cemented the long established rumour that he was mad. Confused and bewildered he sat down, pouring himself a brandy he contemplated calling the police. It was then he remembered… the story of the wicked Lord B.

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Filed under short stories and random spouts of imagination

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