The Haunted House

I arrived by bus, one cheek against the cold glass of the window. Trees and bushes blurred as they rushed past, but the distant mountains stood almost still. If I closed my eyes, I could see the mountains were moving, like the moon moves; like I was moving. How far away would I have to stand before nothing moved and all was still? I was running from something, in another town, that I did not wish to face. I was a storyteller and I was looking for the next story to tell.

In this new town, I did not want to start the ritual of entering as a hero to become a villain, and lose connection with the world. I felt wretched and villainous; I was hoping that, this time, by starting the villain I could grow to be the hero and the story would end well. All the hotels were too nice for a villain like me, and so I searched further. I slept on sidewalks, with others, who, just like me, wanted to come out of their stories as the hero. In storefront windows, I watched my reflection deteriorate: my teeth yellowed, my hair and beard grew long and wild, bags weighed down the sight of my eyes.

One day, I focused past the window, into the store. A posting on a corkboard above the cash register caught my attention:

Haunted Mansion, for the lost and the confused,

A villainous house for the villainous of soul

There was no number, no email, only an address for somewhere far out of town.

I walked up to the house. Shingles were missing from the roof, the floors weren’t parallel, it was creepy just for its lack of symmetry. A loss of symmetry due to time, not construction; a loss of symmetry due to its intense history and its hideaway for souls. The house was haunted, I had heard, and yet, I wanted to go inside. I wanted to see the invisible secrets it held. I wanted to be scared and feel alive by seeing the dead. I wanted to feel my heart race, and race so fast that I could not spend the time listening to my heart beat because I was fighting for my life. I wanted to come out scratched and bruised, because the best stories come from battle scars.

I climbed the decaying front steps of the house and pushed on the door. I pushed and pushed, but the door would not budge. I climbed back down the decaying stairs and stared at the house.

‘Let me in house, I’d like to see your ghosts.’ I yelled. A light in the upstairs window flashed on and off, perhaps a short circuit. The blinds of the upstairs window were half drawn, such that, as the light flashed, the house winked, but remained silent. I was probably projecting humanity onto the house, but I could not help but imagine the house was inviting me in. Clearly, I wanted to believe in magic.

A large willow tree gave a cavernous feel to the front of the house, such that, even though I was outside, I felt as if I was already in. A window at the side had been shattered by a fallen branch; I clambered through the broken glass. Inside, doors flew open and closed on their own, lights were flashing, smoked poured from cracks in the ceiling. A man was sitting in a chair in the very centre of a hallway.

‘How did you die?’ I enquired.

‘By not living’ answered the specter.

‘Is that the same as death?’

‘I am not dead’ answered the man in the hallway, as the intrepid adventurer walked right through him.

‘But you are certainly a ghost, you have no body, you have no physical presence, you are but only a sight’

‘Then am I not? I spent my life becoming and now that I am, I am not.’ I left the hallway exhausted, these were not the interactions I was seeking.

In a bedroom upstairs, I found a woman. She seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps an actress or someone else in the public eye. As I entered the room, I felt at ease. The room was warm, and a soft glow came from christmas lights lining the wall, little lanterns framing the window, an oil lamp, and some candles. I felt safe from the rest of the world.

‘Why do you live here?’ I asked her ‘Why do you live in this haunted house, if you know how to lead a beautiful life?’

‘Because I’ve always lived here’ she answered ‘and most of the time I can handle it, being in a haunted house. I will be glad to show you the other rooms, I have lived in them all, but now I live in this room, and it is my home. I come to this room and feel at peace. It is my breath of fresh air. Stay with me, here, and let the world go on.’

‘I do not think I can live here’ I answered ‘but perhaps I can stay here awhile’

Once, I was looking out her window at the world I had left behind. I had taken a room for myself back in town, but cherished above all else our moments in her room in the haunted house. The haunted house did little to scare me for I did not look in the other rooms. Although she had told me what was in some of them, I did not open the doors. I looked out at the world where I still lived, but less and less, as I spent more and more time in the room with her, forgetting all the rest. She asked me not to stand at the window in case I was spotted.

‘I just want to see the rest of the world, stand by my side’ I answered. ‘You do not need to stand with me forever, but I am a storyteller, I tell stories to feel alive. If you take away my story and do not stand by me, I may end up just another room. A room with a door you do not open.’

She shivered.

I went into the basement of the house and there I found the hall of tortures. There was a guillotine and a huge scythe, a washboard and an Iron Maiden. An executioner stepped out from the shadows. He was both smooth and silent, but also obvious, as though he’d always been waiting for me. His face was masked by a hood, but I knew who he was.

‘This is a guillotine for souls,’ he explained, ‘it will allow you to follow as many impulses as you have souls. You can split yourself over and over again so that every part of your soul can follow its calling and there will be no conflict’. This was, in fact, exactly what I had hoped to find. I placed my neck into the curved gallow, and prepared to have my head separated from my heart.

‘It is over’ explained the executioner. I had not even noticed anything had happened. I looked around the room and noticed another me, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I did not know which me was the head or which the heart, because the duality of the heart and head is not that neat. Hand in hand, we went back upstairs to the room with the soft light. She was still lying naked in the bed when we came in.

‘It is not my place to tell you where to live, but I cannot live here: secrets tear at my soul.’ I said to her. I turned away and closed the door lightly behind me. He stayed in the room, enraptured by her warm embrace forever.

As I walked through the haunted house, I perceived it quite differently. The whole thing was mechanised. I could see the wires holding up the ghosts, the smoke machines billowing fog from the ceiling, the discretely placed flashing lightbulbs. It was all fake. I walked towards the sunset, and, when I reached it, I pulled back the curtain onto which it had been painted, and stepped still beyond.

Reviews

[David Jae]

Your protagonist is interesting and makes the story move on well.

There is a certain existential angst to this story, although I feel it tries too hard.

You use a little too much tell, not show. Consider using more dialogue to convey mood.

Still, it was enjoyable to read.

[hauntedhouse]

Thank you very much for the review David. I was wondering if you could expand on "it tries too hard" and "too much tell, not show". I am not familiar with this terminology.

[David Jae]

It depends on what your aim was. If you were trying to write a horror, or scare the reader, you should write in a way that leaves it to the reader's imagination. Don't just tell the reader what's there, or what's going on, allow them to come to it themselves. It's more powerful.

For example, if the character is in a scary place, you can build that fear through the character's reactions.

E.g
The dark corridor stretched ahead of Dan like a black void, faint scuffling sounds could be heard just at the edge of his hearing. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he stepped forward, his footsteps echoing loudly on the stone floor.

Or, if your character is angry, show that through dialogue.

E.g
'I know!' Dan shouted and Sam took a step backwards, her eyes wide. 'D****t, I know, okay?'
'Dan...' She said, reaching one hand for him and he brushed her away.
'Forget it. Alright?' He sighed, turning and walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets...'

His words and actions, like his hands in his pockets or Sam reaching for him, demonstrate his anger in a strong way.

These are just examples and everyone will find their own way of doing it. Hope it helps, and if you have any more questions, please ask.