Frightful October

Ghostly Whispers

A Halloween dare.

The moon is ripe, watching my every move. I conjure up figures on broomsticks flitting across its broad grin, the fancies of a child s imagination. Wistful, but I m much too old for such nonsense.

The night smells of mischief and autumn. From far away, I catch the scent of burning wood, perhaps a bonfire crackles merrily, and people huddle cozily about its warm cinders.

But not for myself. I stand alone, in defiance of scorn and fear.

The house looks diseased. Shutters hang limply along the vine-strangled walls, the rotten wood clapping dully as the breeze moves one of them, unseen in the blackness. The steps lead upwards, broken and chipped. I need to be careful. The rail is rusted and unsteady, I decide not to touch it. I find myself soon perched upon the front porch, the windows staring vacantly at me like the dark orbs of a patient, malevolent beast.

They told me the door is unlocked, and I m disappointed to see that they were right. I turn the knob in my hand cautiously, and plunge forward into the darkness. Clouds of lint spiral lazily into the air, disturbed by the intrusion, my lantern reflecting musty furniture and crooked tables.

A blur at the corner of my eye, spider-chills crawl my spine - I turn my head to an empty room. A whiskered-face hunkers by my side, tail lashing, contented purring changing into a low growl of agitation. The cat s face slowly moves, its gaze fixed along the wall, perhaps hearing something within the cracks of this aged dwelling. Mice, I tell myself, and walk onwards.

Steps creak beneath my booted feet as I climb an oak stairway, twisting upwards into a dark chasm overhead; the wooden rafters choked with cobwebs, the house lurking above me like the hungry maw of a predatory animal. Floorboards moan in warped protest and the air grows cold. I feel no draft as icy fingers tap along my back and I hurry past the isolated spot, shivering uneasily. The feline companion has disappeared, scurrying down the stairs into oblivion. Was it ever really there

The staircase ends, and a brooding hallway opens before me. Beyond the encircling rail a dusty chandelier sways gently, as if prodded by an unseen hand. The dull crystal tingles eerily in the corridor, and it sounds like the chiming of tiny bells, summoning guests to a dinner. A host of specters I shudder, hurrying forward into the heart of the slumbering estate, the lantern dangling in my uncertain grip. I wonder again about the whispered tales of this ancient manor, ones that I laughed off easily enough when sitting in lighted taverns among boisterous comrades. Solitude eagerly feeds the gullibility of the human sub-consciousness, and I chide myself for being susceptible.