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September 19, 2015 / EB Johnson / Leave a comment

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Annie

September 18, 2015 / EB Johnson / Leave a comment

This is a rough draft short story that I wrote for a competition on http://www.TheProse.com. The theme of the challenge was to write a piece of horror prose, poetry or short story (5,ooo words or less) without using a villain who was a ghost, vampire, zombie or human. It was definitely an interesting challenge, and made me step outside of comfort zone immensely, as I am not familiar with short story writing or horror writing. Anyways, this is the story that resulted. Enjoy!

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

The clock ticked on and on. She stared up at the ceiling, normally white, now cast in all the shadowy grey and black hues of midnight. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the clock, and the faint rustle of the wind as it brushed against the old, white panels and the rusted metal roof of the old farmhouse.

The shadows on the ceiling shifted and changed as the wind bent and battered the branches of the old oak tree outside of her window. The shapes on her ceiling twisted and change. Once, they were only blobs, dabs of grey and black. Next, they became faces, shapes, dancing and cavorting across the clean white surface overhead.

She turned her face and looked at the small digital clock that sat perched on the old mahogany bedside table. The faded green numbers blinked at her in mockery. 2:38. There was only a few more hours now. Just a few more hours and the sun would be up, washing away the black and greys, and turning the world around her back into a world of color and life.

She sighed loudly and rolled away from the blinking green lights.

Sleep, she thought. I must sleep or tomorrow will only be that much harder.

She closed her eyes and listened to her heartbeat as her head cradled into the soft down of the pillow. Before she knew it, she was drifting away, the world fading around her as her mind slipped into a cloud of blackness.

Suddenly, she was back in her childhood home. She looked around her as she took in the house where she had grown up. Everything was just as it had been in her earliest days. There was the old, purple couch, with it’s faded floral pattern. The old tv was resting against the pale, brown wall, its surface rippling in a faded color broadcast of some forgotten news broadcast. It even smelled the same, the faint scents of cigarette smoke and laundry detergent, mixed with the other familiar smells of family living.

She walked down a long, brown hallway, and came into the bright light of the kitchen. Her mother stood there, her back turned towards her, quietly humming as she washed the dishes. She reached down into the sink, her hands coming up, covered in soap, and clutching the soft white porcelain of a dinner plate. Her light brown hair was pulled up into a careless bun, her features masked as she stared blankly out the blazing kitchen window that hung just above the sink.

She made her way slowly to her mother. She was small again. As short and quiet as a mouse. Her feet made no sound as they moved across the worn wooden floor. She had always been quiet in those days. Annie. Annie Mouse her father had called her. But her mother always heard her, her mother always knew she was there.

Somewhere, in the back of her head, something began to niggle at her. There was something off here, something wrong. It was a dream, just a dream. But it couldn’t be a dream. There was her mother, as real as the daylight that flooded the kitchen, her soft hums drifting softly from her downturned face. There were the decorative plates, all in a line in the heavy, mahogany hutch, nestled among the crystal and the teacups. There was the wallpaper, dotted in the delicate twisting green vines and bursting pink roses.

She was upon her mother now, only steps away. She reached out, expecting to feel the soft cotton her her mother’s long, blue skirt. She could smell her; that sweet floral smell of her favorite perfume. It had been years since she had smelled that sweet perfume. She could almost hear her now, “Annie Mouse,” She would exclaim as she turned to face the little girl, “what are you doing back there?”

As she reached out to touch her mother, a sudden lurch took over her, and a silent scream escaped her lips as her mother burst into flames. She shot back in terror as the flames engulfed her mother, wreathing her in gold and orange and yellow. Her mother screamed and turned to face her, flames erupting from her mouth, her eyes dripping down the cracking and blackening flesh of her face.

Annie lurched backwards, stumbling and tripping over her own feet. She crashed down onto her backside as the flaming wraith that was her mother bared down over her. She threw up a hand, willing herself, vainly, to look away from the melting monster that lurched towards her. The acrid smell of burning flesh and frying muscled filled her nostrils, and drove herself backwards until her back met with the cool wall behind her.

The thing that was once her mother reached out towards her face. Annie closed her eyes and felt the heat of the flames that consumed the body. The smell of cooking flesh filled her nostrils, and made her wretch, vomit coming up and covering the front of her body.

She could feel as the flames touched her skin, igniting her face into flame. She felt her skin begin to crack and peel away as her eyes burst and began to run down her face.

Suddenly, Annie’s eyes shot open, and she found herself sitting bolt upright in her bed. The cool shadows of night had faded away, and a delicate light was streaming through her half-curtained windows. She felt her body tremble, and felt a cool draft as it wafted across her sweat, drenched skin. Her heart was pounding still, heaving with her chest as the breaths came deep and ragged. She reached up and touched the skin of her face, which still tingled with the terror of her dream .

Dream.

It had only been a dream, nothing more. It was the stress of everything getting to her. It was the fear of what awaited her today.

She rose from the bed and looked over at the blinking clock. It was 6:30 in the morning, time for her to begin the day. The hardest day of her life. Around her, the sounds of day were beginning to break around the old farmhouse, lilting their way into the cracks and crannies of the old house. It was as if the world had forgotten the blackness that loomed over this day. It was as if burying her mother meant nothing to the world around her.

She shuffled over to the wardrobe, and drew out a knee-length, black dress. It was a plain dress, made of thick cotton, and hugged her curves and figure. She shrugged off the soiled silken pajamas from the night before and tossed them into the corner. She wiggled into the cool cotton dress, and struggled as she pulled the long. bronze zipper up the back. She looked at herself in the mirror. The reflection that stared back at her was not that of a little girl, but a woman grown, her features drawn in sadness. She couldn’t remember what it was like to smile. Not anymore.

She made her way to the bedroom door and out into the shady hallway beyond. She crossed the hallway quickly, the shadows leaving an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She felt the worn fabric of thick, red rug that covered most of the space from her bedroom door to the narrow, ancient steps of the staircase that led to the downstairs foyer. She grimaced as she caught the scent of bacon wafting gently up the stairs. The first step of the ancient, crooked stair groaned loudly under the weight of her first descending step.

She lilted down the narrow staircase and emerged into the cool shade of the foyer. This side of the house was facing the south and the light had not yet penetrated its stillness. She could hear the sounds of the kitchen now, the familiar sizzle and popping of the bacon as it friend in the pan, a juicer whirling faintly in the background. She stepped from the shadows into the brilliant light of the kitchen and looked at the woman with long grey hair that stood over the aged gas stove. She looked up as Annie stepped into the light, and her face stayed frozen neutral blank and expressionless.

They took each other in for a few moments until the older woman spoke at last, “You don’t look nearly as bad as I thought you would.”

“How did you get in?”

“I have a key, don’t I? You’re not the only one with rights to this house, you know.”

Annie stared at the woman for a moment before moving slowly to the side, taking a seat at the little french provincial table the sat ensconced in the middle of the large bay window. She looked down at the pristine white table top, and ran her fingers listlessly over the top. It was a long time before she could bring herself to speak again. The old woman’s back was turned to her now.

“I don’t know if you should be here, Leslie. I don’t know if she would have wanted that.”

The older woman turned around suddenly.

“I was her sister, wasn’t I? This was our family’s house, long before you were even thought of. I’ve as much a right to be here as you, if not more.” The bacon crackled and popped angrily in the pan behind the old woman. Annie’s mind flashed back suddenly to her dream and the woman at the window, wreathed in flame.

“I only meant that I know about what happened…at the end. I don’t think she would have wanted you hear. Not after…”

“You’ve got some gall,” Leslie snapped at Annie, “talking to me like that. After what you’ve done. After everything you did? I can’t believe you have the nerve to even show your face in this house.”

Annie’s stomach lurched, and her vision began to swirl. She could not possibly had known. Had she talked in the end after all? Who else could she have told. What had her guilt and fear wracked body whispered in the end? Into whose ear had she whispered all the secrets of her heart? Annie looked quickly away from the woman and back at the smooth white surface of the table. Her nails picked distractedly at a small chip in the creamy surface.

“I…I didn’t know you knew.”

“Of course I knew, ” she snapped again, “you’re my niece and her heart was broken. Of course I knew. She had no one else to turn to.”

Annie looked at her aunt, and shuddered as she saw the anger and hatred that sat seething behind those light blue eyes. They were just like her mother’s, those eyes. Had she ever seen such hatred behind those eyes? The thought of the flames rushed before her again, the blue eyes of her mother exploding into jelly and pouring down her charred and cracked face. Annie changed the subject.

“Will you be coming to the funeral today, then?”

“Well of course I will,” her Aunt Leslie responded, her voice cold steel. “I thought I would cook a nice breakfast. Thought I would cook some for you as well, since it’s what Sarah would have wanted.” Her eyes were still hard as stone, but her tone suddenly softened from hatred to stern disapproval. Annie looked back up at the woman and nodded her head curtly.

The two women made it silently through breakfast. Finishing before her Aunt, Annie rose to wash her plate. She strode as quickly as she could out of the blinding light of the kitchen, receding to the cool, sweet darkness of the stairs. She ran up the stairs and back to her bedroom, pushing the door shut quickly behind her. She walked slowly over to her vanity and sat down in front of the smooth silver surface of the mirror.

She stared blankly at the lank brown hair that hung limply from her head. Her eyes were a bright, vibrant blue, the eyes of her mother and her aunt, “Healston eyes,” she whispered to no one. She began to play with her hair restlessly, trying futilely to shape it into more than a boring bob. After a few moments with little success, she opted for a simple pony tail, and let her bangs fall carelessly in her face. Down below, she could hear the sounds of her Aunt Leslie, as she cleaned up after the mess of breakfast, and then made her way down a long hall to the spare bedroom located downstairs.

“I thought she would have taken mother’s room,” Annie whispered to the emptiness again. Her Aunt seemed to be taking it all quite hard.

Suddenly, there was a rapping on the door. Annie jumped in her seat, her heartbeat rising to a rapid staccato. She stared at the door, her hands frozen on top of the vanity.

“Annie,” it was the voice of her Aunt Leslie. How long had she been sitting idly, staring into the mirror? “Yes,” she answered as bravely as she could.

“Let me in, Annie. I have something that I need to give you.”

Annie rose and shuffled across the smooth wooden floor. She turned the old brass nob slowly, and grimaced as she heard the familiar creaking of the heavy white door.

Her Aunt Leslie stood in the doorway, swallowed in shadow. She was smaller than Leslie thought, this close; tiny and old. She had only been six years older than her mother, but her mother had never aged like this. Even until her last moments, mother had been radiant, nearly etheral in her presence. She was the very air of womanly charm and grace. Not so this woman, this was a woman that nature had not cast its favor upon. This was a woman bent under the weight of her struggle and fight for love, life and affection.

Leslie looked down into her Aunts eyes and stood silently, waiting for the old woman to speak. She stepped forward and thrust her hands into the light. In them, she held a small wooden box. It was plain and unremarkable. It was quite worn, as if it had been handled many times, over and over again, and the sheared, leveled edges of the box hinted that it had been carved by hand sometime long ago.

“What is it,” Annie asked.

“Just take it,” Leslie responded, much quieter than she had been before, “your mother always wanted you to have it. ”

Annie frowned. Why hadn’t her mother just given it to her then? Or left it somewhere for her to find? Why was Leslie giving this to her now. She hadn’t even been there at the very end.

“Why are you giving this to me? What is it?”

Leslie continued to look up at Annie, never taking her eyes from her face. It was like those eyes could see right through you, seeing every sin, making every tiny judgement. Annie hated those eyes. Her stomach turned and she focused her eyes upon the tiny box.

“Just take it. Don’t make this a fight. It’s been in the family for years, and your mother would have wanted you to have it. She left it with me for a little while, but by rights, it goes to the oldest female child of the oldest daughter. Like it or not, that’s you.”

Annie looked at Leslie suspiciously, but took the box gingerly from her hands. It was warm to the touch, and much heavier than it looked. She moved to open the box, when her Aunt’s hands flew up and clamped down over her own.

“No!” The old woman’s face was twisted with anger. “You open it in the privacy of your own room. Gifts from the heart…they shouldn’t be shared with those they weren’t meant for. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

Annie looked at Leslie, baffled and confused by her sudden outburst. She simply nodded and moved to return to her bedroom. Leslie backed away and turned sharply on her heel, retreating down the narrow, twisting staircase and back into the shadows of the lower house. Annie held the tiny box to her chest as she shut the heavy door behind her. She walked over to her bed, which still bore the crumpled sheets from the night before, and threw herself down heavily. She placed the tiny box in her lap, and placed her hands to either side.

If this gift was so precious, why did she have no idea what it was? Her mother had been a simple woman, with simple tastes. She didn’t collect anything, didn’t have any debts and rarely bought anything that might clutter her “perfect home”. She wore no rings, and never bought herself anything ostentatious or gaudy. Annalisa Smith had been a modest woman to her core.

Annie opened the box slowly and gasped as the saw the most stunning coral and pearl cameo staring up at her between folds of rich, pink velvet. She lifted it by its delicate silver chain and held it up into a pane of light that shone in from the tall white french window beside her vanity. A woman of perfect porcelain skin turned before her. She had a long slender neck, and delicate tendrils of ivory hair cascaded gently behind her. She was nestled atop the richest, most delicate salmon colored coral that Annie had ever seen. The chain, while dainty, was dark and showing signs of age, and here and there, dark black spots dotted its surface.

Annie had never seen this necklace before. Every since she had been little, her mother had reviled the wearing of jewelry. Annalisa Smith had even forgone wearing her wedding ring, citing that she found it to be “ostentatious” and “contrived”. Annie looked at the necklace and felt a wave of confusion wash over her. Whose necklace was this? This couldn’t be her mothers. While it was beautiful, it was unlike anything she was ever like to wear.

The necklace twisted and turned in the light before Annie’s eyes. Suddenly, something caught in the corner of her eye, and she looked down at the tiny wooden box. There, barely visible among the folds of the thick, pink velvet, a small white corner jutted up proudly against the faded wood of the little brown box. Thinking it no more than a play of the light, Annie picked at it with her finger and thumb. She soon found herself drawing a tiny little letter from the box, the pink velvet rising slowly and falling away into her lap. The little note fell open as she lifted it, and she recognized the smooth and curling cursive of her mother’s hand.

“Annie,” the letter began, “if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. If you’re holding this note, it can only mean that I have left my body and moved on to some place greener and kinder.” Annie’s eyes welled with tears, and she dropped the sparkling necklace into her lap, placing both hands on the small note, pulling it open to it’s full width.

“You will be a woman grown now, or near as,” the letter continued, “and it is time that you learn the secrets of your family. This necklace is only the start of those secrets, but I hope you will find the strength to carry them and make them your own.”

Annie’s confusion deepend. Family secrets? Make them your own? What was her mother talking about. She turned the paper over to try and find a date. Had she written this in a final moment of delusion. The paper began to crumble on the edges. This note was much older than her mother’s final days. This paper was yellowed and stained with age. This was a note that had been written long ago. Annie looked frantically at the final paragraph. This is where she would find her answers.

“You must wear this necklace now, Annie. This secret, this burden must be your own. Please know, I did all that I could. I did not want this to be your destiny. I love you Annie, and I always will. Will be seeing you, Annie Mouse.”

Annie read the note over and over, looking for any further clues or answers. There was nothing that revealed the meaning behind her mother’s words, nothing that gave even a hint as to the cryptic meaning behind the riddle of her mother’s words. This not had been written years ago, when she was still Annie Mouse. What could her mother possibly have hidden from her? Her mother was simple woman, a modest woman. They were not a family with secrets. Her mother was not a woman with secrets.

Her mind flew back to breakfast and her Aunt Leslie’s vague answers and words. There was something wrong here.

“But everything is wrong here now,” Annie whispered to herself. “Your mother is gone and she’s never coming back. Nothing will ever be right again.”

She rose and walked over to her plain white vanity again. She leaned over and looked at her reflection in the mirror. There was no use thinking about this note, she thought. Today, she had to bury her mother, and there was no time to think about silly notes. This was just a pretty family heirloom that her mother had wanted her to have – nothing more and nothing less. Her aunt had said as much to her when she had handed her the box. This was handed down from one woman to the next in the family; her mother had probably just grabbed an old piece of paper to scrawl out her note on, nothing more sinister.

She held up the sparkling cameo in the mirror and held it against her pale white skin. It matched fabulously with her rosy cheeks and ivory complexion. She would have to wear it for her mother, she suddenly realised. This was a part of her, somehow or someway, and she had wanted that to be a part of Annie now.

She clutched the clasp of the necklace, and pulled the silver chain around her neck. The tiny silver clasp clicked silently together, and the heavy weight of the coral and pearl pendant fell upon her chest.

The world suddenly turned to agony, and she screamed in pain and panic.

As flames burst from her mouth and ears and skin, she turned to face the door of her room, which was swinging open slowly, silent beneath the roaring of the flames inside her head. As the pain overwhelmed her, she could see the tiny, bent frame of her Aunt Leslie as she stood in the shadow of the doorway. In her there was no longer hate, only pity and sadness.

“Oh, Annie,” she whispered quietly, “I really thought you would be strong enough, I really did. We both thought you would be strong enough.”

Annie lurched towards the cool darkness of the doorway. A screamed echoed around her, she reached a hand out to her aunt and screamed as she saw the flames erupting from her fingertips, the once creamy skin cracking and twisting beneath the heat of the fire.

The last thing she saw, before the pressure exploded behind her eyes and she felt their bubbling jelly pouring down her face, was her aunt with a lone tear trailing down a leathered cheek. Leslie’s brittle grey hair was falling away, like sheathes of ash. The skin of her forehead was splitting and ripping away, and the bloody, hairy flesh of the feline beast was rising as it ripped through Leslie’s once wrinkly and weathered skin.

“It got our sister, that necklace,” she whispered, “and it’s gotten you too. Oh, Annie, poor Annie. The necklace gets us all in the end. You were just never one of us.”

Annie collapsed and felt no more.