A story inspired by the works of Edgar Allen Poe
I look up to my hands grasping the cold red metal bar, my legs are dangling below me. My shoulders and arms ache from the weight of my body. A bird lands on the bar among my hands—it digs its black claws into the thin flesh on the tops of my hands—I begin to scream. Screaming to get the bird off my hands before I fall from the bar. But to no prevail, the blood from my hands now drips idly onto my face in a rhythm. I reckon that there is little flesh left on my hands—I fall.
My heart is pounding in my chest, the flesh on my hands still intact. I open my eyes and at the foot of my bed stands a large black figure, staring down at me. I rush to sit up, my heart is the only sound I can hear. The figure does not waiver, does not move its long claws that extend its lengthy limbs. My eyes are wide, but I cannot move, I cannot scream, I can only hear the crescendo beat of my heart. The figure places its hands on either side of my face, hovering over me. I can smell the faintest hint of rotting flesh as it dips its lips to the crest of my forehead, it whispers in a familiar voice,
“In the cold dark of night,
The line thins between what is right.
Pain to pain is not but,
To the self-reclaimed spot.
Your cries cannot be heard,
For it’s just you, I, and the bird.”
I am dreaming—I am dreaming. This cannot be—the figure takes one claw, dragging it over the square of my jaw. “Goodnight my love, I’ll be seeing you”.
The morning sun kisses the balls of my cheeks. I woke to a wetness that surrounds my body; I must have soiled my self in my sleep. I quickly glance to where to where to figure had previously stood, it was a dream, and what an odd one at that. I throw my feet to the cold wooden floors and feel a sting on my jaw. The skin is raw and coated with dry blood. The dream. Had it been real? Did I scratch myself in the dream state? I have been known to walk, talk, in this state with no recollection the next day--
I spend the day walking through the misty countryside of my parents’ home, reading novels and sketching the ever-changing landscape. I could not seem to shake the velvety voice that coated my mind, “I’ll be seeing you” repeated over. I approached the home by the cobble-stone walkway. I looked upon the house—upon the small stained glass circular windows—upon the pointed arches and flying buttresses—upon the cement gargoyles that stare outwards towards the rotting stumps of trees that litter our landscape. The sun had begun to set, the gray mist looming over the rolling hills. I glanced once more upon the house that filled my childhood with laughter, I couldn’t help but to feel a gaze back on myself, as if someone in the house was looking back on me—observing me.
The taste of the opium still coated my tongue as I crawled into the weighted sheets in my chamber. I drank in the subtle ticks of the clock across the space—tick, tick, tick, tick—
It was the clash of thunder that sent my eyes open. It was the middle of the night; my throat begged my feet to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I reluctantly stood, lit my candle, and headed towards the chamber’s doors. I entered the vast hallway, where I was disoriented by the flashes of lightning that entered through the arched windows straight ahead. I approached the window to peer out into the storm, it was dark, a darkness that reminded me of the days where I would trap myself in my parents’ wardrobe in games of hide-and-seek. I had to squint to see the beaten landscape, and rush of water that flooded the graveyard of tree stumps. In an instant there was light—a flash—and there it stood. I blinked, it must have been my mind tricking me—I squint once more—nothing, it was gone. It must have been the after affects of the opium that plays with my mind. I head down the stairs that are coated in the dark red velvet my mother insisted on.
The double doors were wide open, with gushes of wind and water pouring into our foyer. I run towards the doors, heaving them closed, it must have been the wind. I turn around only to be greeted by that familiar smell—rotting flesh. The figure stands before me, this time more human, there were no claws, and what appeared to be a subtle smile with two dimples on either end. “Hello you” it says. I stumble backwards—the figure takes two steps and is immediately face-to-face with me. I drop my candle and the flame coats the rug, inching on my edges of my robe. I attempt to scream, to alert someone—but I cannot. There is but a pain that takes over my throat the harder I try. “I thought we talked about this, no one can hear you but I” it says.
I cannot move, the flames have now begun to seer the hairs on the legs. I look into the figure’s blue-ish, green eyes with desperation and am only greeted with a hint of dimples. I can feel everything. I can feel the heat—so hot—like when I was a kid and I sat too close to the chambers fire. I can smell too--the smell of burnt flesh—my flesh that coats the inside of my nose. I cannot hear, but the sound of the heart pounding the edge of my chest. I fall to the ground, and as my eyes finally close, I am no longer in pain. I hear that velvety voice before I fall into darkness, “Goodnight my love, I’ll be seeing you”.
It’s morning. My head pounds from the affects of the opium. Another unexplainable dream. I feel weak, my throat burns like a hot brander had been shoved down my pipe. Had I been screaming in my dream?
I ponder down the stairs to my mother mopping up the foyer. “The storm must have broken through our doors last night, there is muck everywhere, will you help me?” I was stunned. It was a dream. I was burned alive—it couldn’t have been real if I am standing here with no burns. Was it real? It felt real—the pain, the smell. No, it must have been the opium. I slept walked, opened the door, that is the only explanation. I bent over and proceeded to clean the muck where my dead body laid the night before.
I felt a daunting presence throughout the day. My body is tired—so tired, and the pain in my throat hadn’t subsided. I can’t comprehend what is real. This feels real. I pitch myself to feel the pain—real. I begin panting, my heartrate beginning too crescendo. I head to my chambers to collect myself. I will drink a little opium, that will help. I pour myself a glass, and begin strolling about my chamber—counterclockwise. I pour myself another—and another. The pain in my throat has gone.
I wander about the house; my feet feel light beneath the weight of my body. I sing a tune that I am not sure how I remember.
In the warm morning light,
Birds soar in a line so tight,
Love to love is not but,
To the self-reclaimed spot.
Your laughter can always be heard,
For its just you, I and the third.
I am jot from my dreamlike state by the sound of my mother screaming—a sound I haven’t heard since—I run. I run to the sound that shook my core. I see her. I see it. I see pools of blood surrounding the body of my fallen mother.
This is a dream.
I try to scream but only the burning sensation remains. I quickly grab the nearest candelabra and charge the figure. I slam the golden candelabra into the scull of the brown-haired figure. In an instant I fall to the ground.
My head is pounding—I am on the ground. I am wet—did I soil myself? I pick up my hand—blood. So much blood, pooling all around me. Eyes. The same blue-ish green eyes that would look at me with pride, love, and life. Except, there was no life—no—my mothers dead body lay before me.
Dream-- this must be a dream. I am dreaming.
The candelabra still sits in my hand, my head is pounding. I reach to my skull to find it gushing blood—cracked, my skull was cracked. My father wanders into the house, I hear a muffled scream.
I hear a flap of the birds wings and a familiar velvety voice comes from within, “Goodnight my love, I’ll be seeing you”