My Little Glass Bottle

This one's not pretty. It is quite dark, and also a bit gruesome at points. Thou hath been warned!

MY LITTLE GLASS BOTTLE

By Zach S. Rumfitt

 

THERE is no more a sorrowful place than a workhouse full of half-famished labourers crushing bones for the purposes of fertilizer, save that same woeful place held in the grip of night.

Picture such a grim edifice on the banks of Fareham Lake; the deathly quiet punctuated by the screams of a poor wretch giving birth in the darkest corner. But what came forth was no recognisable child, but an eyeless deformity with skin purer than snow. As its mother died, the ungodly creation crawled betwixt the floorboards lest it be discovered, where it fed on a diet of rat and beetle.

That was the yarn I heard while purchasing the said building after it was condemned following the damming investigation into conditions there. I now fervently wish I had paid more heed to rumour from the outset, then, perhaps, this terrible tale would never have transpired.

~

I had bought the building as an addition to my many factories, it being the correct size and in an area were jobs were needed, so as I signed my name in black ink along the line I felt proud of myself, of my business and of how I had conquered my, let us say, rather turbulent past. I drank from my little glass bottle to celebrate the achievement.

I set the workers on a task of reconstruction, turning that sorrowful old workhouse full of ghosts into a bright, new landmark for our industrial age.

 

A year after the purchase I sent myself down to the shores of Fareham Lake, as grim as it ever was, to see how my men were progressing first-hand.

I found them dead. Every one, lying upon the cold stone, their eyes vanished and replaced with dark, empty holes. Blood trickled down their cheeks like tears.

Wild panic overtook me, and I saw in my minds eye an image of the thing said to have been born on this site, eyeless, skin pure white. Clattering rang from a corner, and I turned tail and ran from this godless place, the creature loping after me.

 

Finding myself at my house, I ran into the bathroom to wash the blood off my hands. Blood?, I thought to myself. Where did that come from? I glanced into the mirror above my sink and saw, for a second, myself with skin purer than white and two dark edifices in place of my eyes, like abysses in the middle of a lost world. Than I looked again, and the creature was gone.

Shaken, I turned to hear something downstairs crash. The door, the door had been flung open, forced even! I picked up my cut-throat razor and crept down the steps.

A policeman appeared and moved toward me, words on his lips, but then he was down, on the floor with a vicious slash in his neck. I looked up for any more, then back at the cadaver. Its eyes were gone, like the others. The policeman’s colleagues were sprawled across my front room, three of them, all eyeless.

I stumbled over to the mantelpiece and took a swig from my little glass bottle. Suddenly, everything seemed better, and I took another before going to cook myself some well-earned luncheon.

 

I woke up in an oblong grey room, with one door and one window at opposite ends. I felt a wooden bench underneath me.

Outside there were voices, earnest.

‘Killed four officers, as well as ten workmen.’

‘On opium, an addict.’

I shouted for help, but none came. I searched for my little glass bottle, but it was not with me. I needed it, yearned for it. Hours passed, days, beating my hands bloody against the walls and floor.

There was a trial, in which I was accused of ‘homicide, addiction, attacking and killing police officers’. They were told by me that it was it, the eyeless thing that had committed these heinous crimes. No-one believed my plea. 

 

It sits here with me, as I cry for my bottle, and stares with those dark abysses. It never talks, never smiles, never even breathes. I do not know what it is, whether it is me, I am it, or it is just a figment of my imagination, or even a demon from hell. I shan’t think I will ever find out the truth. 

~

There is no more a sorrowful place than a workhouse full of half-famished labourers crushing bones for the purposes of fertilizer, save that same woeful place held in the grip of night.

Picture such a grim edifice on the banks of Fareham Lake; the deathly quiet punctuated by the screams of a poor wretch giving birth in the darkest corner. But what came forth was no recognisable child, but an eyeless deformity with skin purer than snow. As its mother died, the ungodly creation crawled betwixt the floorboards lest it be discovered, where it fed on a diet of rat and beetle.

That was the yarn I heard while purchasing the said building after it was condemned following the damming investigation into conditions there. I now fervently wish I had paid more heed to rumour from the outset, then, perhaps, this terrible tale would never have transpired.

Perhaps I would be free, to see the sunlight, to see the stars and to drink from my treasured little glass bottle. I loved that thing, for it made me a better man than I was, it made me see the unseen and become more than just another eyeless nothing. My whole business was built upon it. I would kill for some of its intoxicating taste now.

When they hang me tomorrow, I shall hope such a thing exists in heaven.

 

Author's Note

I know its a bit rushed. Bear with.

Reviews

[KatDarkness]

It didn't sound rushed at all! I like a good, fast-paced story, and this one had an awesome plot, and a really original idea.

[Marie]

It doesn't really sound rushed, but it moves along at a fairly good pace. It's a fine story, if rather horrible. You might consider using a larger font.