The Crimson Window

The old hamlet of Briarthorn West has a dark secret, and the elderly Ms. Tilda Beland seems to be involved... but how. Another solo effort from Jeff Margavage

The Crimson Window

By

Jeff Margavage

Now it wasn't as if the venerable Ms. Tilda Beland was awash in an air of mystery nor was she particularly different in any way as to make her seem sinister or foul… But the general consensus of the old hamlet of Briarthorn West was that she was a woman to be avoided. None could single out any particular attribute about her, but the dogmatic apprehension would persist.

Perhaps, it was her aged dress, but such as it was, it was expected of one having weathered as many years. Perhaps it was the general attitude of animals with which she came into contact. Cats would hiss their warnings and flee at sight of her. Snarling brave canines would try to ward her away with ferocious barking only to whimper and cower upon her approach. Often regarded unfavorably by livestock and never would one find a single songbird among the twisted and haggard trees brooding amongst the buildings of her farm, or perched upon the gambrels and sills of her less than inviting home.

Ms. Tilda Beland never indulged in fanciful purchases. She took to walking wherever she went. It was said she looked upon motor cars as ‘noisome conveyance for only the laziest of ne’er do wells’. Her old fashioned demeanor never sat well among the forward thinking and more motivated of the townsfolk. Their hushed rude commentary did nothing to dissuade her from her ways. Of obvious proper upbringing, she disregarded their rudeness by never even acknowledging the lot.

Never did she entertain visitors, nor did she find any reason to mingle among the inhabitants of the quiet little town on any but the most necessary of occasions. A singular journey to the shops sprinkled about the hamlet, and only once or twice a month at that. Otherwise, She went about her business and would trundle out Wilcox Road to her abode, never an unkind word.

Wilcox Road was a winding and unpaved thoroughfare with only a single lane, subject to all manner of weather conditions which by rights would make the road impassable, but it never deterred her. The dark dwelling lay approximately one-half mile north of the hamlet proper, the road continuing beyond to eventually join up with an interstate, distant enough to not be bothersome with its noise. As I recall, there was little along the wearisome path aside from several long-abandoned farms and Tilda’s home.

Her home… therein may be a factor in the opinions of the folks of Briarthorn West. The house was many years the senior of even the eldest of residences or establishments in the town, save but for the old church atop Shepherds Glade road. The house was not in any state of disrepair, mind you. In fact, it could be said the home was in exemplary condition for its age. Weathered perhaps, but the home was of sound structure and quaint design. Except for the most outstanding feature. Every board and shingle, every door and sill, every minor adornment of the home were black as pitch. So, too, were the curtains seen behind the numerous panes of hazed glass serving as the structures various windows.

Perhaps it was the shadowy visage of the dwelling which cast the negative aura. Perhaps the eerie silence surrounding it. No… I think they have been factors, but it was not the most unsettling feature of the home… it was something else. I think it was the stained glass windows of the highest dormer which caused such unrest. Every night precisely at the moment the sun fell behind the slow rolling hills west of town, Tilda would light her home with a single solitary candle which she would bear with her as she moved about her home, from room to room as she went about whatever business it was she would do. She cared little for modern trappings such as electricity. “A waste of money,” she would grumble whenever it was raised in question.

She would spend some time in the kitchen around meal time and then she would move to the sitting room, perhaps to read or mend clothes. At precisely eight o’clock every evening it could be observed that she ascended the stairs to her bedroom and promptly extinguish the candle.

But that stained glass window located in the highest dormer… at the precise time she would light her customary candle, the window, too, would illuminate, casting a blood red pall which fairly illuminated the exterior of the home in its entirety. Awash in the crimson light, the dark tones of the structure took on a most sinister and wholly unnatural appearance. Shadows seemed… incorrect, the proportions distorted, as though it were a queerly different architecture entirely. The most vexing of facets to this mystery? The light did not fade with the extinguishing of Tilda’s candle. None could even say when the light from the window would dissipate. It was as if the rising sun would smother the daemonic coruscation. Even on the foggiest of nights, which along Wilcox Road seemed far more common than mere weather would account for, the hellish glow could be seen even from as far as town… like some wretched eye peering into the homes of the townsfolk as they slept.

In the days of that last summer, I can recall whiling away the time pondering old Ms. Beland, wondering what it was that she did to pass the time alone in that ominous old home. A quiet part of me could not help but feel pity for the woman. Was hers a lonely existence? How could it not? A gnawing concern for the elderly matron's well-being entered into my mind and there it festered until it had overpowered the reservation I'd been taught to avoid the woman and her fearsome abode. Without hesitation and without trepidation I decided it was high time someone saw to her situation.

In light of current events, I realize the true motivation of my visit was sheer curiosity. An unquenchable desire to know what it was that cast such a frightful aura of mystery on the black construct and the woman inexorably tied to its existence. That fateful morning though, I woke with the first shudders of doubt. I dismissed these as a vain attempt by old superstition to dissuade me from my decided course of action. Still…  some vestige of doubt managed to intercede whenever I would rise to action. Could it be that I had been so thoroughly ingrained to hesitation at the idea of being in her presence as to decimate my own resolve to deny the predisposition of unfounded phobias concerning the old woman? The mere thought of such cowardice in my own soul made me ill at the thought.

Fear and doubt be damned… never shall the term coward be cast upon my reputation nor good family name! Near the coming of sunset, I outed my home and forced myself along the path to solving this mystery.

In the failing light, I happened upon the walk of aged cobblestone which led to the front door. Just as it had in all evenings remembered, the crimson window alighted in synchronous behavior to the single candle within the home as the sun dipped below the distant western hills, the chance of timing this occurrence upon my arrival somehow seemed less coincidence and more unfortunate fate.

To cast eyes upon the sight of the imposing old victorian home from the safe distance of Briarthorn West was chilling enough. To stand here where the unnerving and awkward shadows fell nearly upon me even from the measure of the walk was an entirely unsettling affair. The vicious scarlet glow falling at angles which seemed incongruous to the natural paths of light glared down upon me in its unblinking malevolence. So concerned with the crimson window was I that I had not taken notice of the venerable Tilda Beland not within her home but standing upon the porch before me, her singular candle alight in her hand casting a welcome light-golden glimmer made all the more brilliant against the surrounding gloom. “Who’s there?” she called, “What business have you on such a rainy night?”

When finally shaken from my stupor of unnerved observation of the home and the wicked light, so engrossed had I become, I came to fully realize it was indeed raining. A veritable deluge. My very senses now betraying my sensibilities. I was literally at a loss for words. I tried to reply but discovered yet another of my faculties had seen fit to abandon me this night.

“Don’t just stand there with your teeth in your mouth, what the blazes do you want?” Tilda nagged, her patience obviously shortening with each passing moment. “Victor, Ms. Beland,” I replied, “my name is Victor Kensington” Hearing my own name spoken, even though said by myself, reminded me of my purpose, “I come here this evening that I might ask some questions of you.” Tilda hesitated before answering with a slight chuckle, “well I do not know what you are asking, but if you don’t come in from the rain, you’ll be… catching your death of cold.” Tilda’s pause left me to feel the slightest gossamer hint of dread, as her almost motherly tone darkened by a noticeable degree when foretelling of my demise. She gestured I follow as she turned and went into the house. The request seemed reasonable enough and I had in fact made this trip that I might speak with Tilda, and so I accepted her invitation.

But for the singular candle she had set upon the table in her front room, the house remained abysmally dark. Slight movement perceived in my highly acute peripheral vision drew my attention to the archway leading to another room on my right, too distant for the faint illumination of the candle to enhance.

After the customary greetings and inquiries to each other's well-being, the conversation came to a crawl. I suddenly began questioning my place as to whether the Crimson Window should be a topic of conversation. Following a brief awkward silence, Tilda herself initiated the conversation, “Mr. Kensington…” she asked in an incredulous tone, “I am fairly certain your visit this evening was not intended to be idle chat over trivialities such as my well being and the weather.” Her suspicion seemed not to be so much a question as an accusation. Still I struggled to find the courage to ask that which weighed most heavily on my mind. One might surmise such matters surely must be handled in a delicate manner. With a deep sigh the elderly woman turned to me, age and a certain weariness in her visage now apparent, “I am old, Victor.  My time short on this earth. Idle banter does me no good. Now what question could have brought you here to my home and leave you so hesitant to ask it that you forget the rain?”

“Ms. Beland,” I spoke, still hesitating to ask but curious to know... and perhaps eager to leave I continued with a shaky tone, “I wish to ask why your window with such a reddish glow seems to haunt the very town. Even on the darkest of nights, it still shines. It does not bring comfort to any who see it. Why does it emanate such a light?” I finally asked my question, though it seemed Ms Beland knew I was going to ask. Her demeanor had not changed its countenance even a touch. “If I may, young man, I’ll answer your question with one of my own. What do you think you know … about the night?” Her question unnerved me soundly. To what peculiarity did she allude? “To answer your question boy, take a closer look at the darkness and heed my words. Perhaps the window will not be the only thing enlightened,” Tilda concluded in a poorly feigned air of graciousness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I again witnessed something in the darkness move. My courage to speak robbed, Tilda simply smiled, as I had taken an unconscious step closer to the candle. It was then that she continued to speak and I was powerless to do anything but listen.

As she spoke, the weather outside had begun to take a decided turn for the worse, as if at the mercy of her words.  Thunder, oddly so close at the start of a storm, crashed violently outside. As I had happened to again look back to the room at my side a vicious flash of lightning illuminated the darkened space… instantly freezing my blood within my veins. As it was but for a brief instant, I caught a glimpse of something I can not accurately describe. At the far end of the room, just below the sill of the broad bay window, there appeared to be a writhing mass, not of substance but of shadow. I could not be certain it was not my mind creating illusory horrors at the perhaps hypnotic insistence of the old woman.

I sat in unwavering silence as Tilda spoke to me of darkness and of the sinister mysteries hidden within. She spoke of old writs of forbidden lore that spoke of such things... and how one might... utilize them. Again the raging storm illuminated the darkened room. To my terror, the mass was no longer at the distant sill, but had moved closer in my direction.

Tilda sensing my obvious disbelief in phantoms and the like eyed me with disdain. "Wait here," she instructed, "I have something to show you." With that, she rose and exited the room leaving behind her candle, and I alone in the perplexing shadows. My rational mind concluded the flickering of the flame to be the source of my imagined moving shadows when again the damnable lightning revealed the mass had moved closer still. I was now able to discern ghostly twisted distortions of feline forms within the daemonic blight. I tried in vain to move further from the door, as my back was already pressed tightly against what in the darkness I presumed to be a hearth of some manner.

I was suddenly prey to a singular shiver along my spine, the same one senses when they feel they are being watched. Suddenly I heard it... a deep guttural rumbling, as though of a very large cat. My eyes followed to where the sound seemed to originate. In the candle light, I managed to barely discern the impression of a fireplace mantle. The sound seemed to be coming from the fireplace. What horror could this mean? Had she taken to burning ...  no, I could not even entertain the wretched thought. With a trembling hand, I held the candle aloft between the fireplace and myself.  I nearly fell to faint at the sudden appearance of two smoldering red eyes among a feline formed shadow atop the mantle, directly above me to my left.

The shadow veiled feline turned its burning slitted irises spotting me in the struggling candle light. It seemed to move, laying down bring its large head, closer to my unnerved form. "Hmm... another being has arrived. Not shadow nor cursed. What manner of grave misfortune brought you to this place... of hidden things? Only the brave or foolish venture here. So… which are you, mortal?” a silky voice purred from the shadow, the tone amused as it seemed pleased that I was here but for what purpose I did not know.

My mind reeled in disbelief at the sight, but for the calmness of its tone I felt compelled to reply, “I… I come here seeking only knowledge of the source of the unsettling light... from the window.” I stammered as I spoke, only further bringing a satisfied otherworldly laugh from the ghastly feline. “Oh… that,” it grimly replied, “that is the window of the soul. It draws to it the shadows of your world, to bring me anew the shadows, which become my… clowder of children.” The creature looked to the room at my side as a lingering burst from the skies cast light upon the writhing mass once again, now just within the doorway. The calls of the unearthly cats rending the silence in a cascade of demented meows and growls.

“This is what I meant to show you, Victor,” the beast purred low, its voice echoing that of Tilda Beland herself, “I, in my natural state, and the children I’ve amassed over these many years.” I could only gaze in abject terror, frozen in place by a fear I could not overcome. “We’ve hungered these many years. It is so good of you to come… that we might feed.” The hideous phantasm laughed.

My realization of the sinister intent emboldened my instinct for survival as I broke from the room blindly running into the darker recesses of the cavernous home, with but the single candle to light my way. Upon exiting the kitchen I came to a junction. To my right, a staircase, directly before me another large room. A flash from the window showed there wasn’t only a single cluster of the phantasmagoric cats, but in this room, there existed an even larger shadow mass. I nearly dropped the candle at the sight. My decision was made for me… I ascended the stairs as if pursued by the devil himself, which I now feared could very well be waiting for me once I ascended these stairs.

At the top of the stairs, I was met only by a single door, sealed tight but for an ominous pulsating crimson glow from the bottom. I glanced over my shoulder to see the eyes of countless demonic felines illuminated by my singular light, engulfing the stairs below and proceeding with measured precision as they ascended the stairs in laborious pursuit, toying with me… as to know there was no longer any place for me to run.

I battered myself bloody against the door with all my terrified might, the door cracking and creaking with every blow. Suddenly the door gave way with the last of my strength, I clumsily tumbled into the room beyond. It was but a small room. No larger than the cramped kitchen from below. The room was unfurnished but for a single solitary window…. glowing with a hideous crimson glow. This was the other side of the cursed window which had brought me here. Now though I was trapped with no means of escape. The ghastly assembly of phantom felines parted as the larger cat made its way through the mass and entered the room with me.

“Where now, little mouse, shall you run?” the sinister cat purred ominously, “It would seem our game has come to an end.”

All sense of reason left me in that terrifying moment. I had but two choices. To try and smash the hellish aperture before me and undoubtedly plummet to my demise, or to become that which fed the dark assemblage of evil before me… perhaps to give them strength to escape these confines. I could not allow such a thing. Better to die destroying the hateful window and protect the village than feed this blight upon the world from whatever hell that spawned them.

My resolve set, I turned and struck the window. The leader, which I now presume to have been Tilda Beland herself, cried out in defiance that I not break the window, assuring me I had made the right decision. As she charged me I dove through the scarlet pane and was free of the house. Though I fell for what seemed an eternity, must have only been for an instant as I fell roughly upon the porch roof but 10 feet below. Dazed and certain I had broken my clavicle and possibly my shoulder, I picked myself up and gazed in defiance to the widow above, where tilda and her brood stared callously. As I walked to the edge of the roof I gazed one last time upon the evil feline matron. Though rain and pain stung my eyes I could not help but feel the gut wrenching impression that Tilda was in fact smiling.

A hideous laughter erupted from the vile cat and what I can only presume was a terrifying cacophony of laughter from the shadowy legion at her back. “Now… never shall the dawn arrive, my cunning little fool of a mouse,” she growled through her laughter. I could not say what she meant. Her window destroyed, no longer would her brood draw strength. Content in my victory I struggled my way home in the storm, every step an agony, every breath a torture.

Upon my return I collapsed to the floor. I did succumb to sleep nearly at the instant of lying down. I know not how long I slept, but I was roused by the faint peal of a distant scream… and then another… and then another until all around me swirled the tortured cries of the village folk. I looked to my clock to see the time of sunrise had since passed, but to my eyes, the sky was still dark as night. I crawled to my window to witness what frightful event was taking place. The streets were alight with people running in fear among the gas lamps lining the walk on either side of the thorofare below my dwelling. Each ran only to be pounced upon by some shadowy horror I could not clearly see as they would fall from the light too quickly.

Suddenly I was aware that the screams had begun within the building where I resided. My flat was on the third floor up. The corridor more brightly lit gave hideous clarity to the nature of this calamity. I peered down the stairs to see Old Mr. Carruther’s apartment door ajar. As he struggled, two of the hideous shadow felines from the Beland home tore him to pieces before my eyes. No blood shed… he just fell apart as a doll in the hands of a reckless child, the parts falling away and getting lost to shadow. But these shadowy cats were even larger than that which I perceived to be Ms. Beland. They took notice of me and began stalking the stairs for their next meal.

Suddenly a fearsome hiss from beyond my sight halted the two larger cats as they turned to face it. Both stepped aside as the human visage of Ms. Tilda Beland set to the stairs, staring directly at me, a sickening grin upon her face...

“My dear, Victor…” she cooed in a tone which would stop the heart of any who heard it, “did I not mention not only did the crimson window draw the shadows into it… it was the wicked light which kept my children contained within that damnable house? The woman who once wore this husk created that window to protect this morsel of a village. For years we’ve waited for the window to break of it’s own accord that we might be free. But now, you’ve done it for us. “What a foolish little man you are.”

The cold truth of her earlier deception shattered the last shred of hope I bore within me. I fell back and crawled from the door. “Thank you for playing your role so well... I couldn't have ruined it better myself.”

Tilda’s form fell away revealing the shadowy abomination which was the source of all this horror… all this death. As the sinister feline approached I shut my eyes to the horror of what was to come… as the obsidian devil before me purred, “And to think… they say curiosity killed the cat…”

The end….