The Hanging Man

Nothing will stand between me and that which I have longed for for so long. Not even he who hangs from the ceiling.

The old, worn mahogany door creaked open, free of its brass latch. The rich scent of dust immediately found my nostrils. I wrapped the crook of my elbow around my face, coughing and hacking into my sleeve. It had always been this way; the dust and wood rot which set in, breaking this place from the inside out. I really would've preferred to just spin on my heels and leave this place behind me but I had come here for a reason. That damned trinket which I needed so desperately was here somewhere and I couldn't leave without it. It wasn't an option. But as my footsteps echoed against the rotting floorboards, there was a nagging in the back of my mind which I couldn't ignore. This house had been uninhabited for years, yet it didn't feel empty. I quickly shook the thoughts clear of my mind and kept walking, checking every shelf, cupboard and dresser as I did so. However, as I searched, it seemed my efforts had been futile. That which I desired could not be found. It didn't want to be found. Pure drive and determination was the only thing which kept me in that old house, pacing back and forth, lifting every loincloth and comforter. I thought I'd been wrong. Maybe it wasn't here, after all. But she had told me so and she never lied. That, I knew for certain. 

There was only one place left to look. The room I avoided so desperately. The deep scratches which ran up the peeling paint and the stark marks of red deterred me so. The brass door knob was tarnished and coated in a black, sticky substance I hardly wanted to touch. However, it was my only option so as I grasped the knob, wincing at the unsettling sensation, I overcame whatever fears I had and pushed the door free of its frame. The rusty old hinges groaned as they swung and a thick mass of cobwebs broke from the door's latch. Cautiously, I stepped over the threshold, not daring even breathe for if I did, he might hear me. It was only a legend but all legends must stem from somewhere. I'd have been a fool for poking the bear when in his domain.

He hung from the ceiling, his decrepit shoulders slumped forward and his jaw slack. His nightshirt billowed gently in the slight breeze which drifted in from the cracked window at the head of his four-poster. Torn crimson curtains hung from brass railings, waving back and forth, squealing quietly with the effort. I averted my eyes from his body, staring intently at the sodden carpet, damp from the leak which dropped from above.

Beside the bed, I noticed his nightstand, the drawer sitting slightly ajar. Slowly, I walked toward it, muffling my footsteps in the stale nylon. The draught whistling through the window pane was the only sound to be heard as I stared into the wooded drawer, noticing a slight shimmer from within. Tentatively, I reached in and grasped whatever it was which he had protected so dearly. There, in my hand was what I had searched so long for and finally, we were rejoiced. I deposited it in my pocket and spun around to leave but he was gone. His noose still hung, free of his neck and the weight of his body. 

I felt a cold hand rest on my shoulder.

Reviews

[JoeM]

What fine writing, Sophie, I'm envious of the way you weave your words and hold the tension to the climax. I look forward to reading more.

[Sophie Marshall]

Thank you so much! I really do appreciate the feedback and I'm so glad you enjoyed it.