Night-Dark Rooms

What evil lurks in the hearts of men? ;-)

Night-Dark Rooms

Paul opened the door slowly and stepped into the foyer. There was no light, only the long shadows of a night-dark room. He snapped on the flashlight and allowed the beam to play over woodwork and plaster walls: an ornately carved bench, a towering floor lamp, a long mahogany side table, the remnants of forgotten times. His light grazed over an oil portrait of the old man himself, face serene as a monument, eyes in judgement. Steely gray hair and dark suit. How long had it been since the old man walked through these rooms?

He shivered as a chill moved over his body like unwanted hands and realized he’d been holding his breath. Exhale. Breath in: the scent of decayed foliage, of autumn, the rot of a season long past. He played the beam towards the parlor and shuddered at the blur of sudden movement. Something ran across the parqueted floor, dashing into the dining room.

He stepped into the parlor, his flashlight noting floor to ceiling windows and tattered curtains, the velveteen settee, and tried to feel the dreams of this room colliding with the years of emptiness. It was simply an endless blackness, a dark knot in his brain. The hollowness of his own footsteps bore down on him as he passed the threshold to the dining room, the direction the creature had run.

Paul allowed himself a half-smile as he saw that the great table remained. He pulled back the chair from the head of the table and sat. He felt the room like a deep river, currents speeding over him as he snapped off the flashlight. He wanted to embrace this darkness, let his mind wade this river and feel each moment like a pebble thrown, but it became too much for him. A heavy quilt weighed him down and he snapped the flashlight back on.

At the other end of the great table sat the imp, grinning in all its deviltry. It brought a finger to its mouth in a gesture of ironic puzzlement, and Paul stared in wonder. It was small, naked, and the flashlight’s beam cast a greasy gray pallor to its skin. It sat on its haunches and jutted its head forward, tilting its head to show its slyness, then it leapt upwards into the darkness of the room.

Paul jolted backwards in his chair, bracing himself. But no attack came. The imp had moved on, deeper into the recesses of the rooms.

The chair creaked as Paul pushed it back and stood. He next examined the kitchen, half expecting the imp to leap from a cupboard or dash from beneath a counter. He moved the beam of light slowly over canisters and ceramics, over rusted cans and mouse-torn boxes. Then he hit upon the servant’s stairs, curling upwards into the dark. A small hand, nails long and yellowed, wrapped itself around the trim of the doorway. Then the imp leaned out, showing its smile again, its small, sharp teeth bared in invitation or warning.

A scuffling sound. It had gone up and Paul knew he must follow. The stairs were narrow and steep, spiraling until they reached the second floor hallway at the back end of the house. Paul scanned the walls and floor, noting each door, noting that they were all closed. It was a game, then. The lady or the tiger. Which rooms were just more darkness and which held the prize?.

The first bedroom on the left was filled with the black of sorrow and ruined lace. Paul’s flashlight exposed the four-poster bed and rotted blankets. He approached the dresser and opened a child’s jewelry box, listening as the song tinkled brightly then slowed to a dirge of tears and sobs. He closed it with a slam and backed away. He wouldn’t be drawn in; his chest was already heavy with a growing melancholy and he left the room at an urgent pace.

The first bedroom on the right held a single bed, the stained sheets drawn back. A black suit lay crumpled and decaying at the foot of the bed. Paul scanned the room with his light: paintings of hunting scenes, an upholstered rocking chair, a tall mirrored armoire that reflected the intense circle of his flashlight. A pistol on the nightstand. Anger fell over him, and he gripped the flashlight tightly; if he allowed it to fully enter him, he wouldn’t leave this room. It was hot as fire but comforting in its all-consuming direction. He forced himself to turn from it, and continued down the hallway.

A form lingered in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, a straight blade in its hand. It turned to him, its face at once haggard and frenzied, eyes widely open, mouth drawn in an overly-exaggerated expression of shock and pain. Paul closed the door, unwilling to engage it.

Then the master bedroom.

The door was already opened by an inch, and Paul nudged it with the edge of the flashlight. Another portrait of his great-grandfather was here, portraying him as a young man with sleek black hair in a tidy suit, eyes still stern and blue. It looked like him. It felt like him, the essence of yearning pouring outwards from the portrait, the soul seeking–what, exactly? Something quintessential. Something to replace darkness with radiance. Something that satisfied.

A rustle from the far corner. He aimed the light there, and saw it. The imp, standing upright, its hands held in front of its torso, pleading. Dagger-nailed fingers intertwined, its expression now pathetic: its down-turned mouth, its pointed ears tucked close.

Paul kept the light trained on it as he strode towards the corner. In the last moment, it looked up at him with its black eyes; its mouth opened as if to protest. But Paul held it tightly and flung down the flashlight.

He brought the imp to his face, then bit, bit hard into its shoulder, tearing away at the flesh and easily breaking into the bone. The creature exploded into a high-pitched shriek, but Paul continued, biting into its aged and musty flesh, chewing and swallowing as quickly as he could. He felt the wetness of its blood on his hands and held tighter until it stopped its squirming, but he kept on, shoving bits of it into his mouth and ripping and chewing. It tasted of acid and mold; it smelled of meat gone bad but its gristle filled him until there was nothing left but to lick its blood from his fingers.

The old man would be proud. He ripped open the curtains to the coming dawn, claiming it as his own, reclaiming his place here, fulfilled and pleased with himself, smiling slyly at the brightening sky.