House of Healing
written by: James Hancock
@JimHank13
I am fed to the darkness.
The itch at the back of my mind keeps me awake at night. I feel like a wounded spider limping from the threat, but never escaping. I see shadows bend and dance, climbing off the walls and reaching out to wrap their hands around my throat. The stench of warm beer and sweat consumes my dingy apartment and reminds me of how weak I have become. I need to get out of the city; pack up my troubles and smile again. Find an isolated place. The further from my disappointing life, the better. I can’t escape myself. But I can try.
After the deaths, Willow House was closed off and swept under the carpet. Nobody wanted to buy it, and it was left neglected. Listed on the murder tour for anyone driving to haunted hotspots, it was a hidden retreat for those who weren’t easily spooked; or, like me, people who couldn’t afford a proper getaway. The old house was remote, tucked away between Nowhere and Forgotten. Just what I needed to find peace and healing.
I walk under the arch of leafless trees, bowing to me as I approach the front door. The black wood exterior has faded to grey, and leaded windows are thick with mould-green panes and grime-coated glass. The long, yellow grass and patches of weeds bury secrets: a broken carriage wheel, rusty water trough, a coil of old rope, and scraps of torn and faded cloth. Many years ago, a happy family was visited by death, and the memory still hangs in the air.
I gulp from my hipflask and steady my hand. The cold sweat of nerves will leave soon. No matter what demons lurk within these walls, I have encountered worse.
Turning the door’s brass handle, I step into my new world. A world of black beams, cracked ceilings, faded carpet, and perfect silence.
It is time to heal my muddled mind and walk in a straight line, but before I can explore my pain, I need to explore my home. I rub my hands across whitewashed walls and enjoy the creaking sound of waking floorboards. There is a mysterious presence here, and the ghosts of horrors past have no hold over the house. The house is in charge. Even with the dust and cobwebs of neglect, the house feels alive. It talks to me without words, but is clear and concise. ‘You are welcome.’.‘I will help you find peace.’
The kitchen is a shell of faded things: a cooker once lived here, this wall had shelves, and pots and pans would hang from these rusty hooks. A family would talk here. A mother would stand by the sink and listen to her husband. I can see her as clear as day, as their son plays with a toy fire truck on the floor nearby. They both stare at me, their grins widening as they fade to nothing.
I swallow the last mouthfuls from my hipflask, tonguing the neck and cap.
Exploring further, I stand in the bedroom of a once happy couple. Studying the metal frame and springs of the bed, I picture her sleeping. The woman in my mind is a good soul. Caring for her child: the boy who haunts my thoughts.
A deafening noise of screaming laughter, and the squealing of that fire truck sends a sharp pain through my eyes. I deserve the pain. The house will make sure I get it. Will make sure I face my past and am held accountable.
The siren’s wail has me reaching for a drink, which isn’t there. In a burst of rage, I throw my hipflask across the room. I must run empty. I must face my demons and dry out the wickedness which holds me. The boy, the woman, they hammer in my ears. I need a drink to calm my nerves.
I must occupy my mind and race from the room to find another distraction.
I hold my balance with welcomed walls as I drag myself along the ever-stretching corridors. Her face before me, shouting. His face before me, screaming. I want to grab the empty whisky bottle from memory and crack the boy’s head. Silence the sirens. And as she screams and thumps my chest, I wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze the resentment from her face. A flashing image of my small apartment haunts me, filled with warm beer and sweat. Sirens and flashing lights.
And then the door. A locked door. Of the many rooms, this last one is off limits, which intrigues me, even more so when a glint of light flickers from the keyhole.
I crouch down close, lean forward, and peer into the darkness. I am held in place, captivated. A faint giggle from the other side widens my eye, and the twinkle of light comes again, quickly followed by the sharp thrust of a long needle.
My scream breaks the silence.
I twitch and moan like the wounded spider of my nightmares. Trying to run. Trying to flee that small apartment filled with warm beer, sweat, and their bodies. His and hers. I need to escape. Flee from the sirens and flashing lights of police cars behind me. Flee from my outburst of rage. Face the demons on my own terms, with a dry hipflask and sober tears of guilt and regret.
The walls close in and shadows loom ever closer. The door handle turns, and a figure slowly steps over me. A dark, twisted face grins and stretches to that of my murdered wife. The house has sent her to cleanse me. To make me pay a murderer’s debt. Through the stabbing pain of a bloody eye, I face my demons as they come to purge me of guilt. The boy’s giggle echoes in my ears eternal as my wife’s arms reach down to engulf me.
I whisper gratitude as cold hands wrap around my throat, and I find peace.
- House of Healing - October 20, 2024
- Memories - August 1, 2024
- Off The Wall - May 11, 2024
