never ending night

A Story by emi

short story off the top of my head, idk i like it

The old house stands on a lonely hill, facing the east , watching the sun rise each solitary morning. The light glints across its cracked and foggy windows, playing purple and green with the dust hanging in the air, thick and suffocating from neglect. The house sits on top of the hill, in all its fading glory, the cracked white paint and faded blue trim only giving hints of its former beauty, three stories reaching up to the empty, brightening sky.

Groaning slightly, the house whispers secrets of long ago events. The house softly reminiscing the creation of new life, and that new life coming into the world, gracing the house with the triumph of discovery and peace. The house shares the echo of music from grand parties, when its halls were opulent, decorations hanging all over the place, while beings swirled around in their best dress in its echoing halls. Then the house’s voice softens, speaking of times that the dancing continued deep into the night, of drunken fights, rape, sickness, and even incest. Then even softer still, so that one would have to strain to hear, the house speaks of death, first of a quick death of a loved one, an accident caused by the drinking at a party. Then it speaks of a slow death, sickness spreading through the body of a ten year old boy, slowly weakening over a span of many months, then dying one night from a fever.

Among the whispered secrets, down the echoing halls dark with gathering dust, a room sat with its open door. A dim light spilling out, becoming less potent in the early morning light. Upon the door, a brass plate hangs slightly off, the names are spelled as Mr. and Mrs. Vanderkit, the dark cursive letters chipped from an old knife blade, cutting across the fist Mr..

Within the room, peeling wall paper lines the walls, making the dust on the Victorian wardrobe and old chairs stand out. The only clean things in the room are the bedside table with the fading light glowing from a lamp fueled with oil, and a large four poster bed, white drapes hanging from the top. The bed almost looks out of place in this dark dusty house, like a pinprick of light and cleanliness in the deep swaths of a prison.

Within that odd spot there’s a single person, bound in the white sheets, sitting there, the light highlighting the different shades of gray in her hair, as the sighing secrets surround her. Flickering across her features, the glow shows her lines of laughter and frowns, tracing from one ear to another, framing ice blue eyes, cold from pain and loss. This faded version of once dazzling beauty is now looking down at a yellowing book, slowly turning the pages, mouthing to herself as she reads. Only when the sun is all the way above the horizon does she seem to notice the coming day. She sighs and puts a tassel in her book. Closing it, she gazed at the stained cover, after reading the book 153 times, she had hoped it would reveal new answers to her if she read it just once more. Tracing the letters B.i.b.l.e with gnarled hands, she still does not find anything new, and puts the book face up on the night stand.

Pushing herself up and over to the side of the bed, she puts weight on her old bones, producing creaks from both the wood floors and her joints. She reaches over and grabs her thin shawl, wrapping it around herself. Then, she hobbles straight out of the faintly lit room, not even bothering with makeup or clothes other than her night gown.

Walking slowly down the hallway, one hand on the wall for support, Ann Vanderkit glanced at the pictures hanging on the walls dusty and dark. She thought to herself that she absolutely must ask the maid to dust around here, then remembering of course that there was no longer a maid. Silently cursing to herself for forgetting, she arrived at the stairs, exactly 23 of them going down. Slowly she started making her way down, shivers ran up and down her spine at the thought of slipping and falling. Her knees started popping around stair six she wondered how in the world had she flitted up and down these stairs in heels once upon a time. That was about 40 years ago. She was now 83, if Ann were to have lived in the city, people would tell her how good she looked for an 83 year old, but with nothing but the distant voices of the wind, no comments came, leaving her depressed and lonely.

Arriving at the kitchen, she walked over to the cupboards, pulled out some stale bread and jam, and sat at the three legged kitchen table. Munching on her breakfast she watched the sun rise further in the sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun through the windows. She fell into a light snooze until she woke suddenly around noon. Disgruntled at the wasted time, she stretched her hand as high as she could manage over head and stood. She walked out into the garden, probably the only neat part of the whole house. There were flowers everywhere, including her favorite -- the moon flowers closed up tight for the day would blossom at night into beautiful white blossoms. These reminded her of her youth and past memories of late nights with her husband enjoying each others company;-- whether it was at a high class party drinking their worries away or nights at home together alone with their son.

While she was alone, she still was the hostess of many parties. She ran around with a fake smile on her face, like hardened plastic, what a fool she was. The joy the grand events had brought her before, was gone by then. Along with her fake facade, and false cheer, rumors among her guests had started to spread. These rumors were about one subject, her, her not caring they were dead, moving on to quickly from her husband, to cheerful, or that she had just been out for her husbands money.

One by one, she heard these rumors, each one putting her in a deeper sorrow. Slowly she stopped having parties at her house. She went from a party every Friday, to every other Friday, once a month, every other month, once a year, then finally no more. Slowly the house had started to fall into decay, rotting from loss of use and care. That is when she had started tending to this garden.

In the garden there were many other plants, including vegetables and even a couple of melons and fruits. There she worked for the rest of the day enjoying the simplicities and joy of growing green healthy plants. Over and over she shifted her hands through the soil, plucking weeds so they would not invade her peaceful happy garden. The one joyful place in an otherwise lonely desolate house on a hill.

As the day drew to a close, Ann bustled into the house and grabbed another shawl. Then she walked back into the garden wondering which flower she should pick today. Deciding, she walked over to the moon flowers and carefully cut four off, cutting at the base of each flowers stem, so that they would live longer. Taking her flowers, she walked out behind the house to a huge tree sheltering two polished marble stones. On the white marble, in black, the words “Tom Vanderkit, beloved husband, 1800-1842” were setting of a solemn shadow in the late afternoon light and on the other was “Brian Vanderkit, beloved son 1833-1843.” Carefully, Ann placed two of the moon flowers on each of the graves. About two feet in front of them she lowered herself to the ground, thinking as usual that she should say something, but instead, she sat there quietly, immersed in her memories of the deceased. Finally, she came back to herself and just said three words: simply and straight, “I miss you.” her soft voice echoed across the mountain, carried by the winds just as the sun hit the horizon. As the sun sank in the sky, Ann seemed unable to gather up the energy to go back to the dusty house. She felt both her breathing and heart slow down, a cold creeping sensation spreading from her stomach, enveloping her in a soft release of thoughts.

There, the old woman sat slouching into what would be a never ending sleep. The old wrinkled face smoothing out, a slight smile softened her features. As the final rays of light disappeared, throwing her body in shadows, the iridescent white of the moon flowers in front of her folded out, blossoming one last time.