It held the land, the house.
It squatted upon a foundation of fieldstone; walls held
straight by thick lengths of timber cut from the fresh bodies of trees. Floors,
windows, stairs, and rooms crowned like a king with gables of ornate grey
slate. And, like a king, it held the land. Nothing grew from the dirt in its
cellar. Nothing was kept safe or secret with its doors. Nothing mattered save
the house.
But what is a king without servants? How can a king force
its will, without a force to will? The house called for knights. Many
heard the call.
Shortly afterward, the husband and wife who lived in the
house, the young pair who built it from a dream of what their future together
might be, died. A tragedy, it was called.
Time passed.
New people came to the house carrying their boxes and their
hopes. The knights watched. The house waited. Until, finally, both stopped
watching and waiting. The family left the house in dripping bags of cloth and boxes
of wood. A crime, pronounced the shaking heads. The knights danced around
pieces that were never found.
Time passed.
New people came. They placed thin strands of copper within
the house’s walls; strands that were married to larger strands coming from the outside.
An odd box, strange and heavy, flashed to life. The king and its knights
watched the box. It gave the house thoughts that hastened the march of its red
knowledge. Such a wise king to see what it saw was very, very old. The house
went upon the people slowly now. The name of this new land was “terror”. Terror
for the man. Terror for the woman. Terror, first and foremost, for the two small
ones. The king burst with generosity, overspilling upon its knights and seeping
into the smallest hiding place. It painted the walls with its generosity. This
time, many people came to carry away the work. The crowd milled in angry
whispers. The knights begged to be released. Their king said no. They obeyed.
Time passed. Memories tinted red resisted fading.
People did not come back.
The king squatted perturbed upon its fieldstone. Something felt
wrong. Emptiness was not what it was built for. Eventually, some people did
come, but only slowly and in secret. Most spoke low and fearful about IT. The
house liked this. Its knights scratched and itched longing to act. The king allowed
only the sport of screams. Aim your weapons at their eyes and ears, it declared.
Gift me screams. The knights did as commanded fashioning new edges. No
blood, said they king. No blood cried the knights. Its kingdom grew from
the whispers of those who walked or ran away.
Unless, of course, it was a time for blood.
A stumbling loner. A lost child. A collared animal. For these
things, the king unleashed its knights. It was a generous king, after all.
Time passed. Bloody memories piled like stone.
A person came to the house. The knights pranced and gnashed.
The king, IT, the house, watched. Then more people followed the first. They
walked through the house speaking of the king’s deeds. Some mulled in and out
of rooms opening doors and peering in closets. Some carried in boxes, just like
those in the past always did. The king liked the familiar. When they removed
the front door, this puzzled the king. When they removed the back door, the
puzzlement grew. The king, however, was patient. It squatted, watched, and
waited. Large lights were carried inside. Shovels and pry bars were passed from
person to person, while collared animals sniffed throughout its halls. The
knights hesitated for they had never seen people act in such a way. Floorboards
were lifted, too easily. Holes were dug, too deep. A hush followed each bundle
carried outside.
They will leave, said the king. More will follow. This
is the way of the world. The knights quickly agreed with their king. Faster,
thought the king. Yes, they must leave faster so the old can replace the new.
On the second floor, a door suddenly closed into the face of
a man. His nose CRACKED. He stumbled to the floor in red surprise. The king,
had it a face, smiled. The people, however, brought in axes and splintered the
door. And another. And another. A knight pushed a woman down a flight of stairs.
Angry cries rose from the people as they scurried her away. A basement window
was smashed out. Then more. A sharp command rose above the din. The king turned
its attention beyond its walls.
An old man, a young woman, two men with arms entwined, and
several others stood shoulder to shoulder facing the house. The king looked at
them and they at IT. They SAW the king.
I have seen eyes like those. That one’s nose. That one’s
stance. But where? wondered the king. The knights felt their king’s
confusion. But lo! Look! The people were leaving. They fled leaving their boxes
behind.
They are people, these people. Candle flickers and
nothing more. I was before them. I will be after them. My knights will roam to
twist and tear! Drinking in the force in its voice, the knights lifted their
own knowing what would come next.
The king let slip its hold.
The knights screamed red rage as they raced through halls
and rooms toward the rabble. Those crawling out through the broken basement
windows heard a popping sound from an abandoned box, like the ring of a joint
pulled apart.
FIRE!
In name and action burst hungry from its hidden cage, biting
for purchase in anything it could find.
FIRE!
Poured out from all the other boxes, smothering floors and climbing
walls. The people had seeded the house with flame.
The king slammed open and shut what impotent doors or
windows it had left while orange mouths boiled and ate its wooden body. The
king cried out while unmoved human eyes watched the marching consumption.
The house felt itself disappearing. Parts were, then
weren’t. It was not pain as the eyes knew it, but from being to unbeing.
Its form, its self, melted away without hope of reprieve. Helpless,
walls shuddered, free finally to bend and fall. Its crown collapsed. The
knights shrieked and cursed as they faded back into the thin shadows they were
before they held the anchor of their king. They piled upon each other grasping
the shrinking handholds. Their din and ranks fading forever beneath the
panicked weight. The house pulled desperately unto itself. The king clutched at
its slipping existence trying to remain, to be.
The house, alone, died under the steady gaze of the familiar
people.
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Hello, gentle reader. There's more to the story
Click here - "The Haunting's House" is a sequel, I think.
