Marple Hall's Recalling.

Short story about a city called Marple, with a somewhat gothic twist to it. It's winter in the year 1604...

The Recalling…

 

…A thousand needles tattooed bitter chills down his spine, imprinting his brain with visions of an end in this tundra of white murder.   If some form of security wasn’t reached fast, Well, I think we all know what would happen. For weeks, or was it days, He had been scouring this land in search of what he truly desired; Although he wasn’t really to sure on just exactly what that was. His knowledge only obtained him he was heading north, and he was pretty sure to be still in England. Time was escaping the hourglass quickly though, the hare catching back with the tortoise.

As the story goes, the tortoise always wins, no matter who tells it or which way it is presented. Alas, a dwindling glow was distributing its warming essence to all within range. A sight so reassuring, even the hardiest of King  James’ soldiers would have had a tear in their eye, he had found what his heart currently desired. The hour was by now late, he was sure of it, and midnight was on her prowl to get to him, dawdling was not an option despite his legs becoming half frozen.

The structure is astoundingly grand now it isn’t smothered in blistering snow-fog. To my attention was first brought the scattered windows, they were a thousand stars absorbing the culture and history of this cobble ruin they have conjoined to; Ivy-Shreds are dancing along the crumbled walls, each leaf  has the care and intricate design of an artists masterpiece as well as the vibrancy of a pine forest come spring time. The structure stands tall, no, proud, as I am sure its first owners once did too. How could such, beauty, be lost? Forgotten? Although perhaps it isn’t, maybe somebody is in the ceramic corridors right now? Dancing in they’re riches or even expecting me? Who am I kidding, for one I was too tired, cold, to think like that and surely some sign of life would be pulsing from the place? I approach the door with ease and relief, certain I was safe now.

The doors edge open, but not as the stories of people tell down the inn, “Whe’en oi’ got neer’ thee’ dawr’ et’ swoong’ open et’ did” but more like a whisper so powerful, yet gentle, two masses of brass could float open and reveal the hall of ebony-dark death. You can taste the conflict on your tongue as you take a single step into the room, you seem to understand everything about its past. The murder, the threats and even the torn love! A damp smell looms in the air a bit like a moth would around an oil candle. I walk in further and enter another dark wood door…

…This time it actually does swing shut! Could have been a breeze, I told myself, no point scaring yourself silly in such a desperate situation. An oil lamp is lit in the corner, yet I think nothing of it! I should have left then, and I wouldn’t be in my current state, probably safe at home, warm and less, well, far under I guess. The room is a reception. I can tell by the files of paperwork and the desks in the corner. I say I CAN, as though I am there still; I am though, theoretically. I can’t close my eyes, if I have eyes, I can’t stop re-living the moment. The blood is still tickling my neck, the illusion still piercing through my very flesh and devouring my soul. Crazy it sounds? Perhaps I am.

I was sat at the desk, clothes on the side I was wrapped in old cloth I had found, a little dusty. This is the first time I recognise the tension in the air, the taste had been different to this, more, old? This was fresh, as though I was being watched now. Cobblers I tell myself. I tell myself a lot of things, a lonely life can lead to that. I breathe heavily now, I know something, someone, is up and about. The noises for instance! How often does singing occur in such an ancient building? Could not possibly be the wind, unless the wind now knows English now.

“ A whisper in the wind, A pale faced bite, This eve I shall sing, Till end of thy night”

It shudders through me, tearing at every emotion I have ever faced. What can I do? Hide? In an old house! I’d get lost and starve to death even if she, he, it, doesn’t find me. I have to run! I turn back, head for the door but its bolted shut! I stare at the window and see a fresh handprint upon it, watery, at least there’s no blood. Yet. I dart towards it and twist my body in a rather peculiar way I was unaware I could manage and I feel it. It’s the illusion. It splinters around me, not into me, not the glass anyway. Laying on the ground is a body, pale, white. Dead. I knew exactly who it was yet I still turned it over, regretting it now. My mother. Blue from the cold. Glassy from death and bruised from the murder.

It’s the girl, undoubtedly, the b*****d child of King James. Arabella. I too, being of such an illegitimacy was being hunted. Stalked. Time is the only variable in each of her killings, she has given me 26 years. Life itself is more painful than death, facing the facts hurts more than any execution, accepting yourself kills more souls than an axe would in a lifetime. And now I feel it. Thought had taken me away from my situation, perhaps Arabellas plan, perhaps another variable. But the bite, In my kneck, Blood as red as cherries from a French gateaux and now I am but a spectator on the situation. Dead. Alone. Under the old oak tree, an eternal sculpture for society to forgot about, to ignore. I have time. Time to think. Time to remember. Time is the only variable. I have time to recall…

 

Author's Note

Ignore punctuation errors, hoping to fix. Please give me constructive critisism!

Reviews

[Devanshu Rajput]

i totally agree with chris...you have written a great piece...enjoyed it a lot...keep writting.

[Chris]

Nice writing. A wonderful background story point to the piece. Very deep in some areas. We're looking forward in seeing more from you. Welcome to Writers Cafe.