The Writer of the South

Sort of Gothic short story, I s'pose.

Within the confines of this story I am to read, lies my soul; the binding light that stores my life within a few sheets of paper. Runes and tattoos lie across parchment skin that I am doomed to read for an eternity. Why or how am I here, you ask? It is an arduous story, I must confess, but I shall labor to retell it to you, the audience. I came here not of my own will, no. I was trapped here by the accursed girl, the writer herself, the Rune Sorceress. Even now I feel her quill scraping new words into my soul, blood for ink, telling tales of the future still to come. For now she writes the story of my past so I may share to all of you the hell of crossing the threshold to the ink kingdom, her domain. I hope you enjoy my misery with wary ears and cautious eyes, and learn a lesson not to be forgotten.

It was a dark December night when I first came upon the Shale Manor, my latest home. *The wind howled against the manor house, making shutters snap against the wooden siding: I hadn't had the time to shut all of them as the house was incredibly large and my trip had been over three days long. I shivered beneath the thin sheets I had brought with me, though it was never truly cold down in the South. Tomorrow I would have to search for the draft- it was chilling me to the bone.

I restlessly tossed and turned in my bed, trying to ignore the musty smell of the house. It had been a major plantation back in the slave days, but no longer did it operate.* It was left to become a ruin until I had bought it, planning to fix it up and sell it for a major profit upwards of three hundred thousand dollars. I was a realtor of sorts, or at least I worked in the business of flipping houses. I was pretty darn good at it, too.  I had been pretty damn good at it, too - that is, until my wife left me. Since then I have merely drifted from project to project, never really becoming interested in my work. Until now. I had seen this house for sale on the web, Seventy thousand dollars. It was more than out of my budget, but I just couldn't pass it up. It was like the house was calling to me and the drive to buy it was stronger than my own common sense. Finally, I felt the black curtain of sleep begin to encircle me in its inky folds…

I was in bed, and it was still dark outside. The wind had abated, leaving it *eerily quiet. I stepped out of bed, my feet hitting the floor with an echoing thud.* I heard a sob break the silence, making me jump and knock the lamp behind me off the nightstand, shattering the ceramic. "Seriously?" I muttered but ignored it, more concerned with the sobbing than an old lamp that didn't even work

Down the second floor’s hallway I wandered, following the sounds of crying until I found myself at the bottom of a dusty looking set of stairs. I made my way up the creaking steps, wincing with each moan of the aged wood. The staircase ended in a pull down door, the string worn from years of use. I could hear the echoes of the crying clearer now, hidden just above me in the attic. Slowly I pulled down the door, sighing at the sight of more steps. I climbed them, fretting about the rusty hinges' ability to hold my weight. I poked my head into the dusty room, my eyes adjusting to the thickness of the dark. The loud sound of crying was pounding on my ears now, not only in the room but seemingly inside my head. I saw a shape outlined in the corner of the room, shaking with great, heaving breaths. It slowly turned towards me and I felt my heart seize in complete fear, my skin covered in goose bumps as a chill ran through my body. Its eyes. Her eyes. They were all I could see. Blood red, piercing like a predator’s. Hungry. Her eyelids were forced open with stitches, scabs covering the holes from where a needle had threaded the string. Her nose was split in half, blood and infection pouring out. She ran at me, arms stretching out with ragged stumps for fingers, and I fell back.

With a start I sat up in bed, sweat pouring down my face in rivulets as I clutched the sheets. My eyes flashed around like a fearful animal’s, taking in the light that filtered through the shuttered window and illuminating the room enough for me to calm down. I felt a bone deep fear of every dark corner in the room, like something might be hiding there, waiting to consume my soul.

"It was just a dream. Just... a dream," I said out loud to myself, searching for some kind of inner peace. I threw my feet over the edge of the bed, swearing loudly as I cut my foot on... glass? "What the hell?" I said in horror as I looked down upon the very lamp that had fallen in my dream, shattered upon the floor. "I'll just clean it up, it'll be like nothing ever happened," I told myself, searching hopelessly for a convincing excuse. I quickly found my industrial broom and swept it away, throwing the glass shards where I wouldn't step on them.

I spent the rest of the day trying to keep my thoughts away from the dream and the broken lamp, surveying all of the work that needed to be done in each of the rooms. Finally all that was left to survey was the attic: exactly what I had been dreading. Swallowing my fear, I made my way upstairs to the same exact drop down door from my dream. I almost turned around, but I had a nagging feeling that if I didn't look around now, I'd keep having that nightmare. I couldn't stand another dream like that. I preferred not to have a heart attack any time soon.

I climbed the aged steps, feeling déjà vu as the smell of dust clogged my nose again. My mouth went dry as I looked around, instantly relaxing when I didn’t find a demonic child. Light poured through an old, broken round window. "Well, that's where the draft is coming from," I said with a sigh. I would have to get a tarp for it when I went back downstairs. A trunk stood out in the bare room made of a plain, black leather that was peeling from the test of time. A lock adorned it, rusted enough that I could easily break it off with just my hands. The shabby piece of metal disintegrated to pieces, dropping to the floor as I opened the trunk. I coughed as the stench of something disgusting reached my nose, making me half expect to find a body in the trunk.

To my surprise I found a stack of leather bound notebooks, in surprisingly good condition. Grabbing the four or five books, I slammed the trunk shut and went back to my room. The sun was descending towards the west now, just dipping below the horizon. I grabbed up the first book, the one in the best condition. It was devoid of ink except for a single page of brown that looked like incredibly aged blood. I cringed and dropped the book, moving onto the next one.  This one was filled with writing, but it was in a blood red ink and flowing cursive script. The story started normally enough. It described in depth the life of a middle aged woman down on her luck after her lover left her. She had apparently lived here in the manor for a short period of time, hired as an indentured worker and stuck with a dependent child. I flipped through a bit, trying to get past the angst and drama. Suddenly I noticed something out of the normal from the average writing: it started to become scratchier, as though she was panicked. I started to read again as she relayed frantically the strange occurrences in her life: crazy dreams, extreme paranoia, and a shadowed girl seemingly following her around. Every time she tried to talk to the girl or approach her, the girl would begin wringing her hands and scream, disappearing into thin air. It left the woman questioning her sanity. The writing became more and more frantic, describing the elaborate nightmares and eventually horrifying daytime visions until it just... cut off.

I threw the book down next to the others, kicking all of them out of the room. "I have to get out of here," I said aloud and started grabbing what small amount of belongings I had brought with me and dragging them out to the car. I didn't feel like being part of this horror story. I threw the few bags in and jammed the key into the ignition, turning it only to hear  the engine sputter and die. "No. Not now,” I growled, punching the steering wheel. I tried it repeatedly- no luck. I hesitantly made the decision to sleep in my car instead of braving the prison that was the plantation. I realized that I was probably just being crazy paranoid, but I'd always been like this. I was that guy who would read the book IT and stay away from storm drains for three weeks afterwards. I said goodnight to myself as the sun dipped, throwing the land into darkness. I slipped into an uneasy slumber, tossing and turning in the uncomfortable seat.

I groaned and turned over, confused by my surroundings. I was lying in the old bedroom again with the original creepy book I had found to be empty on my chest. I tried to launch myself away from the bed but chains snaked their way from beneath the bed, encircling me like a python with a meal in its grip. "Somebody help me!" I screamed helplessly, thrashing against my bonds. At the door stood the little girl, head cocked at an unnatural angle. Half of her neck wasn't even attached to the rest of her body, sinews and veins hanging out for the world to see.

Don't you want to be the star of my story?" She asked me, her red eyes streaming blood. Clutched within her bloodied fingers was a quill made of either a raven or a crow's feather.

"N-no. Stay away from me!"

"Too bad for you, then. You shouldn't have come to my home if you didn't want to stay... Forever." The demon walked towards me on unsteady feet as I flailed for my life. She reached towards me, caressing my face and leaving a trail of blood. I winced and she grabbed the empty book from beneath my tied hands. "This one's yours," she said to me with what looked like a smirk, "it's time for us to begin, my friend." She opened the book to the first page and turned towards me. With a slow, deliberate movement she lifted my shirt and carved into my stomach, her quill somehow stronger than my skin. I began screaming, my voice growing hoarse and she continued her work, using my blood to write every word she so chose.

"Ligatis carnes ad pergameno, sanguis ut atramentum useque in saeculum," (Tie flesh to parchment, blood to ink forevermore.) my tormenter whispered repeatedly as she worked. What were once my screams turned to whimpers and soon silence followed. I felt my consciousness growing dim as my blood created fresh words and I fell into an abysmal slumber.

When I awoke there was no sun. No air. No life. Only darkness and the scratching of her sharp quill upon my skin. I could not ask what was happening. Only repeat what she had written. She is my mistress now. I am her slave. She owns my memories and toys with me sometimes. She makes me think that my wife is here with me, or that I am finally free. As soon as happiness fills my life, she scribbles out her words and pulls me back into my lonely hell. I will never escape. And if you're reading this, neither shall you.

Author's Note

Please feel free to analyze and kick my butt, I need harsh feedback!

Reviews

[hurdur]

Beautifully written. I love it. I wish there could have been more, though

[Calli]

I had a word limit :(

[Dark Rider]

This is, like, the best story ever!!!! I loved every minute of reading it. The way you write is amazing. I wish I could give so much details into my writings. This was just all out awesome. I love it! Great job. :)

[Calli]

Wow, thanks! I had trouble squishing it into 2000 words because it was a schoolproject! Thanks for reviewing it!

[Dark Rider]

Well, it's great either way. :)