Taedium Mortis
by Louise Norlie © 2007
I never can be tied to raw, new things - H.P. Lovecraft
It was one of those overcast Saturday afternoons when, dazed by lingering exhaustion from a long week in a dreary cubicle, Ashley attempted to blow on the damp and dying embers of reality, attempting to inspire a spark or two from the ashes. So many hours were passed in deadening activities - work, paying bills, randomly flicking through the internet. Something more must be compelled from the world around her– by force if necessary. It seemed that her existence had become very much like staring into a computer screen – there were plenty of flickering images and sounds, but these were mere illusions, without depth.
For miles the streets were clogged with traffic; Ashley decided to drift on foot, at least try to get some exercise, but there was little to gain by walking the grease-stained and littered streets of the decrepit downtown, where huddles of strangers eyed her suspiciously from the bus stop benches. Shoppers jostled past with their bulging bags, buses snorted noxious fumes, and a police car screamed in a frenzied chase.
Ashley directed her footsteps into the old section of town. Here the streets wound and zigzagged through precipitous cliffs and valleys with sudden turns and drops. Cars were forced to drive slowly, and pedestrians who tried to rush quickly lost their breath climbing the uphill slopes. Here and there along the sidewalks were crumbling stone fences and posts that seemed to outline something that had long been lost. Ashley envisioned, behind them, the hotels and mansions that these once bordered, buildings demolished and forgotten. Behind the ruins today were legions of new mega-mansions with featureless exteriors and gaping windows that opened upon blank walls. The newest development bulged over most of the surrounding property; its front door looked like an afterthought dwarfed by the monolithic grandeur of the concrete-colored exterior.
Even so, the further she walked, the more she noticed that the area still had an aura of difference; there was a fine mist in the air. The bushes bristled with thorns, ivy curled around the telephone poles, and the slate sidewalks were slippery underfoot. Ashley turned a few more corners, and felt like she had lost her way. Yet she was unconcerned, and strangely at ease. After several blocks, the style of the architecture began to change. She passed a few old Victorian homes with wrap-around porches and towering turrets. Some, obviously uninhabited, were burnt out with blackened windows which looked like gauged eye sockets.
At an intersection at the top of a hill Ashley turned to survey the distance she had traveled. To her left was a road that appeared to be a dead end - as far as she could see the street ended in a darkened forest. Yet there was no dead-end sign. The street was perfectly quiet except for the metallic squawks of a flock of starlings.
The houses were tiny and dilapidated, hunching low and tense as if for warmth. She paused before one that seemed a little worse than most. It was surrounded by jungles of unkempt grass. The mailbox pole was tilted forward; a soggy newspaper formed an amorphous blob on the porch. The shrubs were overgrown and tall spiky weeds rivaled them in size. Ashley noticed that the wooden gate, labeled with a metal “Beware of Dog” sign, was ajar. The small murky windows, veiled by heavy-lidded awnings, seemed to stare at her with interest, like squinting eyes. If only she could see the world from their perspective…
The starlings above crackled and moved from tree to tree, swooping through the sky like a thrown net. It was starting to rain, and the wind blew violently. There was no one around, no one to see her. Ashley entered the gate and shut it behind her gently. The front door would probably be locked, anyway. But it wasn't. The storm door, stained with rust, was unlatched with a squeak, and the knob of the inner wooden door turned easily.
Inside the rooms were empty except for a bucket in the corner and a dirty mirror on the wall. The floor, stripped to an unpolished wood, echoed her every footstep. Upstairs she found what must have been a bedroom, with a small closet containing a few hangers. There was an old easy chair in the corner, greenish and frayed.
Through the upstairs window Ashley watched long white spikes of lightning claw across the sky. The rain pelting the windows sounded like the applause of innumerable insects beating their wings. Feeling heavy and fatigued, she pulled her jacket around her neck and sat down on the chair to wait out the storm. Soon she was asleep, dreaming strange visions of a town where the citizens rotated their heads like owls, huge waves sloshed from side to side in overflowing swimming pools, and men mowed sweeping lawns of soapy foam.
***
It was almost completely dark when she woke. A piercingly cold draft was in the air. Ashley heard a door slam, crunching, a barking dog. Startled, she attempted in vain to peer out the window. Heavy footsteps thumped up the stairs. Ashley felt along the wall for the closet and stepped inside where she stood petrified with fright, her heart racing as the footsteps seemed to enter the room and come to a sudden stop. Then all sounds ceased. Seconds, minutes passed. Ashley pushed open the closet door. Nothing was there. It must have been her weird dreams leaking into her waking hours.
Holding her breath, Ashley descended the stairs. As carefully as she would defuse a bomb, she opened the doors without making the slightest click and stepped into the pathway. Suddenly there was a sound of rustling. Something heavy pushed into her and knocked her to the ground. There was a whirlwind of snarling and barking. Ashley cowered to the ground and tried to protect her face, but it seemed to be everywhere. She felt pain in her ankle and heard the sound of her pants leg being ripped. She screamed for help. A pair of boots appeared near her face. Then everything went black.
***
Once more, it was perfectly quiet. Ashley found herself sitting in the green easy chair on the second floor of the abandoned house. Her mind was blank, but she was in no pain, and felt calm, adrift in a silent sea. Life, time, and space seemed to move around her; she felt like the still point in the turning universe.
She looked down at her ankle and flexed it. Her clothing was clean and whole, her leg uninjured. Outside it was grey, with a dull filtered light seeping through thick clouds. She shrugged off what must have been another figment of her imagination and went downstairs.
When Ashley reached the front door she could not turn the handle. It was absolutely frozen in place. The grimy windows were also stuck and could not be budged.
Hammering footsteps resounded above. Grabbing the nearest object, the bucket, she backed herself into a corner. The footsteps came down the stairs, steadily, and she tightened her grip on the bucket, preparing to hurl her feeble weapon if necessary.
In the semi-darkness Ashley could only discern the shape of the vague figure which appeared before her. It moved slowly, with steady and imperturbable strides. She cringed as it came into the middle of the room. She withheld throwing the bucket only to see its face – but she couldn't. It was featureless – as if some type of translucent web smoothed it flat to nothingness. She screamed, closed her eyes, and threw the bucket, which made a banging clatter across the room. When she looked again, the figure was gone and she was surrounded only by the dirty white walls. Moments passed in utter stillness. Ashley retrieved the bucket in case she needed it again.
Children's voices began chattering in the distance. Ashley looked out to see two boys walking down the street. She pounded on the window. They did not seem to notice. Trembling, she pounded harder.
“Help!” she screamed. Without glancing up, one of them picked up a rock. She stepped aside as it crashed through the window that had trapped her, scattering shards across the floor.
“Help! Can you open the door?” she yelled through the cracked window. The boys were oblivious, arguing with each other, occasionally casting a mischievous look at the house. She continued shouting, but did not seem to catch their attention.
To her relief, the boys came to the door. She heard their whispering voices, so near and reassuring.
“Can you hear me?” she cried. “See if you can open the door.” There was a thump, and the door was pushed open a few inches. Ashley ran forward to open it all the way, but it seemed to be stuck and could not be opened further.
“I can't seem to open it any more, can you?” Ashley turned her face into the thin opening. The boys peered inside, blinking, their bravado turned to a tentative fear.
“Can you guys open the door?” she repeated, louder. The boys continued to ignore her as she tugged fruitlessly from the inside.
“Hello! Hello? Can't you hear me? Can't you see me?” she yelled at the slivers of their faces visible through the crack. The boys continued staring at her, but didn't speak. They muttered to each other, then pulled the door shut and ran away.
Ashley twisted the knob again but found it immovable. Stepping back, she felt an icy rush of fear. She turned to look in the mirror and found that she had no reflection. There was just a bucket, floating in the air.
Outside the window a dog barked. Footsteps rumbled overhead.
Louise Norlie's fiction and nonfiction pieces have appeared in numerous
magazines, including the angler, The First Line, edifice WRECKED, elimae,
insolent rudder, r u m b l e, and Heavy Glow. See her writing log at
http://louise_norlie.livejournal.com for links to her work online and
updates on future publications.
