here’s a short story

something that i wrote in creative writing for our paranormal unit

story under the cut!

The Portrait

Moving into a new house is always an adventure, especially where there are more rooms than you need and you’re all alone in a house that just sits and stares down an empty street with trees on both sides of the road. The houses near mine have long been empty, still filled with old furniture covered with white cloth that no one has come to collect. I can’t imagine what it would be like to just get up and walk away from one life and into another, forgetting what you did before and leaving everything and everyone behind. Of course, this must be what being reincarnated feels like.

I needed the silence in my house to work. I needed to be alone with no one bothering me. I didn’t need the roar of cars going down the road I lived on, nor did I need the sounds of angry construction workers complaining about how hot it was in the middle of July and demanding to use my bathroom. I complied only one time, to let them use my bathroom, and by the end of the day it was filthy. The toilet was clogged, I needed to get more toilet paper, it smelled like shit (literally), and my wife got harassed. Ex-wife now. One thing led to another and suddenly we were sitting at a desk, signing papers, and my wife got custody of our three-year old. My now ex-wife told me that our daughter wouldn’t remember me because she was so young and wouldn’t keep pictures of what once was around their new apartment, bought with money she took from my bank account. She’s dipped into it numerous times, thinking I wouldn’t notice because I rarely do my own balancing and all that bull, but I noticed. I always noticed when she was “sick” and told me she was going  “to stay in bed all day” but instead went out shopping with her girlfriends using my hard-earned money. Being a writer is hard and you only make so much money off of it so when you do earn something, you want the money to yourself. My wife did not see it like this, though. She said, “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours.” I did not see that. I am the one who worked hard to bring money to the family and keep food on the table and all she does is freeloads. The only thing she does when I’m out somewhere doing research during the day and our daughter was at school was watch reruns of Maury and call “That’s bullshit!” at the TV when she didn’t agree with something. I was glad she was out of my life now; she caused too much trouble for my own mind and sanity. I’m glad I never have to see her again.

I spent a few weeks in the mountains writing, secluded and all alone with only my thoughts to bother me and give me anxiety and extreme paranoia. It was to prepare for the life I’m living from now until I bite the dust. I had lived alone before, but never for extended periods of time. The longest I’ve lived alone was a year, but I still talked to people and went out and people came over and we had parties and trashed an apartment complex. These friends are gone, though; I haven’t heard from them since my college days. I didn’t need them either. They were loud, angry, horny animals that liked to drink and couldn’t shut up. What I needed was peace, quiet, and the calm sound of a creaky old house where an unknown author committed suicide.

That was another thing I had to be told about the house: that it might be haunted. You see, real estate agents have to tell you if there were any “abnormal deaths” in the house before you lived there. I wouldn’t consider suicide abnormal since it’s quite common in teenagers nowadays, and some adults with depression. Some adults, for example, like author Ned Vizzini who wrote It’s Kind of a Funny Story who suffered from depression and jumped off the roof of his parent’s house. People make teenagers out to be some kind of already broken toy from the struggles of childhood and prepubescence with parents who get them up in the morning, go to work, come home and welcome them there, and then eat dinner and after the kids go to bed, the parents argue and drink and their relationship of love dissolves into hatred and the kids try to block out the sound of drunken rage and cry. They cry tears of days that were supposed to come but won’t because their parents are going to split up and they’ll never go to Disneyworld in Florida together. People make teenagers out to be some kind of already broken toy, but adults are the secondhand clothes of life and already ripped and torn and know what life is about and why it smells like my bathroom after I had the construction workers use it. Teenagers can be some kind of broken toy, but the adults that have lived through it suffer too.

Anyways, this author wrote because he liked writing and not because he wanted to make money. Although making money by doing something you love–like playing video games for example–is also a plus. This author and I would have had a lot in common. We’re both the most philosophical people we know and we see ourselves as smarter than everyone else our age, we love to write, we prefer being alone, etc. Except that he’s dead and I’m not, so that’s one thing that separates us.

I went into his library and he had books from centuries ago and from this century. His oldest book was Utopia and his most recent book was something by some author I haven’t heard of before. Given this man died long before I was born and all the books were dusty, so I assumed that each book and author and story were important to him in some way, shape, or form. I left the books where they were, deciding I’d rather get something else to hold my books than move his. Why did he have Utopia though? It was published in the 1500’s and near impossible for anyone in this day and age to read. Well, he wasn’t part of this day and age now was he

I walked around the house with a pad of sticky notes, writing on them and putting them on doors, which told what room it was going to be. Old bedrooms could become areas for me to relax or libraries or research rooms. There was an old piano in one of the rooms that I decided to keep. I knew a little bit about how to play, but more practice wouldn’t hurt. I had an endless amount of time on my hands now that I lived alone. No one to tell me what to do or when to do it, which is something I’ve wanted for a while. Since I was a kid I’ve wanted this but never got it due to the fact that my parents forced me to go to church with them every Sunday and go through confirmation even though I repeatedly told them I didn’t believe in what they did, that I can’t prove nor deny any existence of an omniscient, omnipotent being. But they made me go anyway because they always said: “As long as you’re living under our roof, you’re going to church with us. When you go to college, you can make your own decisions. Until then, you’re going to do what we say.” I always believed it was total bullshit. Parents always say: “Do what you want and believe what you want, we won’t make you do anything.” Then the next moment they’re shoving you somewhere you don’t want to be or making you do something you don’t want to do and making sure you don’t say your opinion to anyway. They force you to conform to their ways but they always tell you that you have free will to do anything when really you don’t as long as they’re around. Total bullshit.

I finished putting sticky notes up around the house, leaving reminders to myself as well. I would have to get some form of electricity in this house sometime because all I have now is lanterns and flashlights. I’ll call someone tomorrow to get the Internet set up and some cables for TV. Just because I’m secluded doesn’t mean I have to be uncomfortable.

The sun was setting right now; I locked the outside doors and all the windows before retreating to an inside room. By inside room I mean a room that’s like a closet: it doesn’t have any windows and isn’t on the sides of the house. They have these kinds of rooms in almost every house in case of tornadoes. Shattered window glass is not something you want to have thrown on you.

I had a few blankets a few pillows along with my flashlight, as well as a few books and my cell phone in my back pants pocket. I read for a few minutes before putting the book aside, turning the flashlight off, and lighting the lantern. Well, not really “lighting” it since it was an electric lantern. I turned the lantern to the lowest setting without turning it off completely, put my head down, and fell asleep.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump.

Shuffle-shuffle thump-bang.

CRASH.

I sat straight up, breathing heavily. Noises, I heard noises. I didn’t hear them now but I heard them a moment ago-

Thump.

What is that? I listened closer.

Thump.

Thump-thump-thump.

Against my better judgment, I went to investigate. I couldn’t sleep knowing that something might be in my house. I wouldn’t be able to sleep with that feeling of anxiety in my gut and dread in my mind. I took my metal flashlight and crept along the halls on this floor.

Bang-clatter-smash-bang.

Shuffle.

Shuffle-shuffle.

Bang-thump.

I looked above me, pinpointing the source of the noise. I shined the light up on the ceiling, hearing the noises again and again. It kept moving so I followed it, walking faster and faster to keep up with it. I soon reached the attic door, where the noise stopped and the house was filled with an eerie, bone-chilling silence and cold again. There was a small handle to pull the attic stairs down, but I couldn’t reach it standing on the balls of my feet. I jumped up and grabbed it, gravity pulling me down and the stairs with it. As the stairs came down, I narrowly missed getting a mouthful of ancient wood. The stairs hit the floor with a dull, creaky thump and I made sure they were stable before going up.

I stood on one step, eye-level with the floor. I shined my light across the floor first, then on the walls and finally, the ceiling. The attic was enormous, bigger than I thought it was going to be. I climbed up all the way, being hesitant about the floor. This house is incredibly ancient­–built in the 19^th century–so there may or may not be rusty nails sticking out of the ground. I’m a generally reckless person who’s also quite cautious, so I kept on the look out for any tetanus nails.

I heard scratching. I distinctly heard the sound of nails on the ground and on the walls. I followed the sound, which was to the other end of the attic. I was led to a large shape, covered in a dusty cloth. I suddenly remembered a memory from when I was a kid, helping my grandparents clean the attic.

“Grandpa, what’s this?” I asked, pointing at a figure on a metal rod.

“That?” he responded. “It’s what people would put clothes on and keep them there so they wouldn’t get messy.”

I nodded, understanding. I knew what it was already, but as an eleven-year old, it was my job to look at least somewhat interested and curious about everything that was covered in dust and mildew and older than dirt.

“Hand me that box, boy,” Grandpa said, pointing at the box to my left.

“Okay,” I replied, setting my flashlight down and shoving the box over to him. It was heavy for me, but I was pretty sure he could manage carrying it. There were windows in the attic and it was daytime, but there were still some dark places in the attic that the light couldn’t reach. Even light can sometimes not touch the darkest parts of a room.

As I heard Grandpa pick up the box and start walking down the attic, I was suddenly aware that he didn’t know about the last step on the attic stairs, which was a trick step. You step on it, it breaks and the attic stairs retract back up and lock whoever’s in there in.

“Grandpa, wait-!” I began to say, throwing my flashlight down and running to the attic entrance, but I wasn’t quick enough. I heard the snap of wood, a scream, glass shattering and things breaking, and the familiar sound of the stairs retracting and locking in place.

“No!” I shouted, banging on the stairs. “Grandpa!”

I waited for a response but didn’t get one. It occurred to me that the box was filled with old wooden toys, no glass. Why did I hear glass break?

I rushed over to the window in front of the locked stairs, which would be behind you if you were walking up them. From three floors up, I could see a lot. I could see the barn and the apple orchard, and a figure lying motionless on the ground in a pool of what resembled thick cherry syrup.

“No!” I screamed, banging on the unlockable windows. The windows were incredibly strong and durable, created so that they wouldn’t shatter during a storm or a natural disaster.

I screamed and kept screaming until my throat was raw and sore and needed water. I banged on the windows repeatedly, looking for a weak spot so that they would shatter and I could yell for help. I tried to unlock the stairs, bloodying my nails and getting numerous splinters for trying. Tears made my vision blurry and the front of my shirt damp. Eventually, I huddled in the corner of the attic crying, knowing that Grandpa’s death was my fault. That was too much blood I saw and he could not possibly be alive. I told myself repeatedly it was my fault, trying to get it in my head that it could have been prevented if I had acted faster. It could have been prevented if I had remembered to tell Grandpa about the trick step. I couldn’t tell him now nor could I ever. I couldn’t go back in time to remind myself about the step or go back and tell him about the step. He was dead because I forgot and it was all my fault. It was all my fault and I could never apologize for not telling him. He’s probably furious with me, wherever he is right now. I hated this. I hate being alone with my thoughts. I hate thinking about everything wrong I’ve ever done but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help but worry about everything. I hated thinking like this and I hated being alone, but being alone is what protects me.

I hadn’t realized I fell asleep until I heard police sirens outside the house and people banging on the attic stairs.

“Hello? Hello, can you hear us?” a man shouted. There was more banging before the stairs came down and people started to come up at a fast rate. I was still in the corner, crying silently and breathing quietly.

The police found me and took me downstairs and then outside where they asked me questions; I didn’t answer any of them. I looked over and saw an ambulance with a body bag being loaded in. My grandmother was crying off the side and when she saw me look at her, she gave me an evil, vile look, and then she kept crying.

I came back into reality, gasping for breath after realizing I wasn’t breathing, and stumbled into a wall, resting my back against it and sliding down. I grasped my chest, trying to even my breathing.

Did I just have a flashback? I asked myself. I sat in silence for a few minutes before slowly getting up, steadying myself against the wall. I looked towards the thing covered in a dusty cloth and approached it. I took a deep breath, grabbing one of the corners, and yanked it off, dust flying everywhere and getting in my hair, my eyes, my lungs. I almost screamed at what I saw.

It was a painting, a portrait. It wasn’t a normal portrait like ones from centuries before because it didn’t show life; it showed death.

It was a man, presumably sitting down. He was showing his right side to whoever was painting him. He was wearing a black suit with a white button-up shirt and black tie. He was sitting in front of a wall and wasn’t so much as leaning against it as being slumped there. His mouth was open and his jaw was slack, like it had been broken and was just hanging there. His eyes were wide open, staring at something, the ghost of it imprinted in and on his eyes. He would be staring at whatever it was for a very long time.

There was a bullet hole in his right temple and blood was splattered on the wall he was slumped against. The details in the painting were remarkable, I have to admit. It’s extremely difficult to get a lot of detail for something with a limited number of resources.

I got closer to the picture, looking at it carefully. The eyes moved and looked at me, and winked. I stumbled backwards, confused. The man then got out of the chair and stood up, turned right in my direction. He took a step, then another, and then one more out of the painting. I crawled backwards away from it but he just kept coming, his slack jaw swinging this way and that with each uneasy, swaying step. With each step he took with his right foot, he fell onto his left and his shoulders swung from right to left and then back up.

My hand hit an old book and I picked it up and threw it at him, hoping to slow him down. The book went straight through him and he disappeared in a cloud of dust. I got up and ran over to the painting to see if he was there, and he was. Still slumped against the wall with a broken jaw and a bullet though the head with his brains splattered against the wall he was leaning against. Oddly enough, the man looked a little like me except it was the previous owner. I saw pictures of him before I moved in and he looked like me somewhat but still completely different.

I turned around and ran down the stairs out of the attic. I slammed the stairs up and found some left over duct tape I had, got a stepping stool out of a box, and put tape all over the entrance to the attic. I took a permanent marker and wrote, “DON’T OPEN, SOMETHING INSIDE”. I didn’t know what this “something” was but I did not want to know. I was breathing heavily by now and I kicked the stool over to the other side of the room, tossing the permanent marker and tape with it.

I couldn’t explain what I saw, nor could I prove I really saw it. They say all writers go crazy at some point, and I guess now was my time.

The thought of the man walking out of the painting kept invading my thoughts no matter how many times I tried thinking of something else. I gripped the staircase railing as I walked down, my vision getting blurrier and blurrier by the millisecond, and then I saw something.

“Okay, Mr. Everett, just sit right there and the artist will be in shortly.”

The man sat down and nodded, fixing his tie and shirt and jacket collar. He sat so his right side is what the painter saw. He waited three minutes, then five, then ten. He checked his watch, angry. He had paid good money for this artist and they failed to show.

“What is taking so long?” the man called to the back room. The artist came out but with a gun instead of a paint palette.

“What is this?” he demanded. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man had wanted to die, yes; he was struggling with his inner demons for a long time. He had tried to hang himself but had failed to go through with it.

The artist walked up to him and placed the gun in his right hand.

“Shoot yourself,” was all the artist said.

“I absolutely will not!” the man exclaimed, standing up and approaching the artist. “If you think I’m going to do this-“

The man was shoved away from the artist by another man that had appeared and was punched square in the jaw, the sound of bone cracking and shattering resonating throughout the entire room. He fell into the chair and couldn’t say anything. The aggressive man put the gun in the other man’s hand and put it up to his head. The man in the chair looked off to the side, seeing a woman. His eyes softened, sad, and then there was bang of the gun that went through the man’s head and splattered his brains against the wall.

He would have his portrait done now.

I came out of the vision and saw I had collapsed and fallen down the stairs. I was breathing heavily and I quickly got myself up and ran outside. I put my hands on my knees and tried to even my breathing, checking for any broken bones.

I need a drink.