Write An Opening To A Horror Story.
76 Barley House
Name: Abiola Adeogun
Subject: English Coursework
Teacher: Ms Hill
Form Class: 10JO
Task: Write An Opening To A Horror Story.
They told him the house was haunted. They told him the house was strange. Five families had moved in, and never made it out. Alive anyway. He had already survived two days with his family. His second night in his new home, what could possibly happen?
A whispered name.
The boy stirs in his sleep. A pale, vaporous moon lights the room. Shadows are deep. He twists his head, turning towards the window so that his face becomes a soft mask, unblemished, colourless. But the boy's dream is troubled; beneath his lids, his eyes dart to and fro.
The whispered name:
'Daniel....'
Its sound is distant.
The boy frowns; yet the voice is within his own slumber, a silky calling inside his dream. His arm loosens from dampened bedclothes, his lips part in a silent murmur. His floating thoughts are being drawn towards consciousness. The protest trapped in his throat like a form, emerges as he wakens. And he wonders if he has imagined his own cry as he stares through the glass at the insipid moon.
There is, in his heart, a dragging sorrow that seems to coagulate the blood, so that movement in the veins is slothful and wearisome. Somehow, making all effort to exit a ponderous, perhaps even hopeless affair. But the whispering, almost sibilant, voice dispels much of that inner lassitude.
'...Daniel...' it calls again.
And he knows its source, and that knowledge causes him to shudder.
The boy sits up, rubs the moisture from around his eyes (for he has wept while sleeping). He gazes at the dim shape of the bathroom door and is afraid. Afraid...and fascinated. He draws aside the covers and walks to the door. The trouser cuffs of his rumpled pyjamas caught beneath the heels of his bare feet. A boy no more than ten years, small and dark-haired, pale-skinned and strangely worn for one so young.
He stands at the door, as if fearing to touch. But he is puzzled. More- he is curious. He twists the handle, the metal's coldness leaping along his arm like iced energy released from a source. The shock is mild against the damp chill of his own body. He pulls the door open and the darkness beyond is more dense; it seems to swell into the bedroom, a waxing shadow. He shrinks away, reluctant to allow contact with this fresh darkness.
His vision adjusts, and the inkiness scatters as if weakened by its own sudden growth. ...
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He stands at the door, as if fearing to touch. But he is puzzled. More- he is curious. He twists the handle, the metal's coldness leaping along his arm like iced energy released from a source. The shock is mild against the damp chill of his own body. He pulls the door open and the darkness beyond is more dense; it seems to swell into the bedroom, a waxing shadow. He shrinks away, reluctant to allow contact with this fresh darkness.
His vision adjusts, and the inkiness scatters as if weakened by its own sudden growth. He advances again, passing through the doorway to stand shivering on the landing overlooking the staircase. To descend this would be like sinking into the blackest of all pits, for darkness down there appears final.
Still the hushed whisper urges:
'...Daniel...'
He listens for a moment more, perhaps wishing that the minor voice would also rouse his sleeping parents. There is no sound from their room; grief has exhausted their bodies as well as their spirit. He stares into the centre of the darkness below, terribly compelled to descend.
The fingers of one hand slide against the wall, as he does so, their tips rippling over the textured wall paper. Disbelief mingles with the fascination and the fear. Small lights - caught from who knows where? At the foot of the stairs he paused once again, glancing back over his shoulder as if seeking reassurance from his spent parents. There is still no sound from their bedroom. No sound in the house at all. Not even the voice.
From ahead, at the end of the corridor in which he hesitates, comes a soft glow, a shimmering strip of light. Slowly, each footstep measured, the boy goes to the light. He stops outside the closed door and now there is a sound, a quiet shifting sound. His toes, peeking from beneath his pyjama legs, are bathed in the warm shine from under the door and he studies them. The light is not constant; it flickers gently over the ridges of his toes.
His hand grasps the door handle and this time there is no cold shock; this time the metal is wet. Or is it merely the wetness of his palm? He has to wipe his hand on the pyjama jacket before he can make the handle turn. His grip tenses before lodging and turning. A brief thought that there is someone clutching the other side, resisting his effort; then the handle catches and the door is open. He pushes inwards and his face is flushed by the glow.
The room is a display of burning candles: their light bows with the opening of the door and their waxy smell welcomes him. Shadows momentarily shy away then rush forward in their own greeting as the countless flames settle. At the furthermost point of the room, resting on a lace-clothed table is a coffin. A small coffin. A child's coffin.
The boy stares. He enters the room. His step is leaden as he approaches the open casket, and his eyes are wide. The moisture on his skin glistens under the candlelight. He does not want to look into that coffin. He does not want to see the figure lying there, not in such alien state. But there is really is no choice. He is only a child and his mind is not closed to unnatural possibilities. A voice has whispered his name and he has responded; he has his own reason for grasping at the unbelievable. He draws closer. The form inside the silk-lined casket is gradually revealed.
She wears the black silken gown, a pale blue sash tied at her waist. She is - she was - not much older than the boy. Her hands rest together on the chest as if in prayer. On her neck lay two holes, causing his eyes to linger. He stares at them, for a moment more, studying at their depths. He raises his hand and rubs his fingertips over them, as to feel the pain she is going through. The holes, so close together, look sore and red against her pale skin. The scabbiness of them causes him to shiver and advance. Dark hair frames her face and in her death she is almost serene, a sleeping, untroubled child; and although, in truth, she is perfectly still, unsteady light plays on the corner of her lips so that it seems she suppresses a smile.
But the boy, despite his yearning to disbelieve, knows there is no life within that pallid shell: the rituals of grief these past two days (not yet complete) were more convincing than her shocking absence. He is close above her. He wishes to speak her name, but his throat is constricted by the wretchedness of his emotion. He blinks, dislodging a swell of tears. He leans forward as if he might kiss her peeling lips.
And she grins up at him, her young face no longer innocent, but guilty and experienced. And her hand stirs as if to reach for him. Her evil smirk gives him view of her knife stabbing teeth. The healthiness of her gums, contrasts with the unevenness of her teeth, causing a shock onto him, for her face so young. She needn't drink, but thirsts for him, thirsts for the pain he could give in his final moment, thirsts for his tasty red blood that will fill her mouth and make her feel human for one instant in her monstrosity. She wants to give in to his visions, bend his neck, run her fingers over his sore tender skin, and then sink her teeth into him and drink form him.
For he knows nothing of her months of starvation, restraint, wondering. She has an unclean desire to suck his very soul form him, to make his heart rise in the flesh inside him, to drag from his veins every precious particle of him that still wants to survive. Wanting to slide her hand into his body, breaking the flesh so easily even with her delicate fingers, and close her fingers around his heart, bring it to her lips and sucking it, like a fruit until no blood is left in any fibre. Feeding on it till even the colour of blood is out of it.
The boy is frozen. His mouth is locked open, lips stretched taut and hard over bone, the scream begun but only breaking loose a moment or two later, a shrilling that cuts through the threatening quietness of the house. His cry diminishes, dissolves, and the boy's eyes close while he seeks refuge as his absent-mindedness becomes inflexible...
