“You…you want to enter that house?” she whispered, “I wouldn’t. Very peculiar, that house.”
Confused, I opened my mouth to question her statement, but it was of no use. The old lady had turned her back on me, literally, and she departed, echoing her words in the wind
“Very peculiar, that house.”
I turned around; facing the direction the old lady had entered, in hope of another passer by, in hope of sufficient help. Though I was in desperate search for some support, I gave up, concluding fearfully that I was lost, without communication, without means of transport, without comfort. On top of that, I had to no alternative but to accommodate myself in the dreary house, for heavy rain had fallen and had drenched my convertible.
With the old lady’s comments still in mind, I reluctantly turned around and timidly approached the front door.
“4W is an odd name for a house”, I spoke aloud,
attempting to comfort myself by drowning out the chilling hooting of the red-eyed owl that sat perched on the top-most branch of the oak tree, adjacent to the house. I became hesitant in my desire to ask for assistance, nevertheless, I realised I was completely soaked, and had to seek shelter immediately.
I reached for the doorknob, and without laying a single finger on it, it turned and the door opened. In surprise, I reserved my fingers to wipe my brow, unsure whether I was attempting to get rid of rainwater, or sweat. Slowly, coarsely, the front door opened. I took a deep breath, clenched my fists for any daunting action, and took a step inside the isolated, formidable house.
I was in. Surprisingly, the house didn’t seem half as intimidating as I had expected it to. First of all, I had walked into what seemed like a square-shaped lobby. However, this wasn’t a lobby, for there weren’t other doors leading to the additional rooms of the house. Second, the walls were covered; from head to toe, in jet-black paint, illustrating again, no sign of character or warmth. Though this didn’t bother me, I began to astray from my fears and wondered if the designer of this house had any taste? There was a window on one wall, draped in none other than black curtains, a rug in one corner of the room, and a table supporting a lamp at another.
The room was completely dark, and the only illumination was the lamp, for the mist of the clouds above encircled the full moon, overcrowding its luminosity. Slightly relieved that there was nothing fearsome to this house, more explicitly no one, for I heard no reply to my call when I first entered the building, I calmly made my way to the table and lamp.
On my way, I side-stepped oversized cockroaches, ducked under hanging spider-webs, and cautioned myself not to step on each floorboard for too long, for they emitted loud creaks, implying the foundation of this house not to be very sturdy.
Instantaneously after I reached the table, picked up what seemed to be an old oil-lamp, the only illumination inside the room fell on a dusty book and mirror. Unfortunately, there was no telephone, furthermore no form of help, however I was more interested by the fact that the dusty book was untitled, therefore picked it up to marvel at its mystery.
I began to rummage through the pages, almost completely forgetting the purpose of my visit into this house, which was to find help, and found nothing but blank pages. I searched again and again, hoping to find a map or some other that could aid my gone astray, and at long last, I did. Over a double-spread were three lines of writing, though I was unable to understand their meaning, given that the text was written in a different language. I attempted to read it, but my multi-lingual skills weren’t exactly top notch, and so gave up soon afterwards. Letting the lamp and book down gently on the table, the light fell on the mirror, giving me an idea.
I raised the mirror above the book and lamp, slightly tilted so I could read the text from back to front, and so I did
“Lost you were. Trapped you are. Die you will!”
Slightly shaken, I dropped the mirror, shattering it into several pieces. Immediately afterwards, the front door closed shut, so abrasively the wind surged inside, extinguishing the flame within the oil-lamp. The room was a total blackout. Pitch black. I couldn’t tell whether I was on track towards the door or not as I attempted to flee. I hauled at it, pulling the doorknob with all my might, hoping to escape this dreaded room, this eerie house.
With no such luck, I turned towards the window to my left. I stripped it of its curtains, only to reveal a brick wall, tarnished with blood, depicting those three dreadful words
“Lost. Trapped. Die!”
I turned around, panic-stricken; with sweat pouring down my forehead, forming a puddle at my feet. Again I attempted to breakdown the door, but my palms were sweaty, and my shoulders heavy, that it was of no use. I began to shout; I began to scream for assistance, for anybody to come free me, but all that came out of my dry throat was disbelief and a cracked-voice, due to the fear I felt that was evident in my tears.
I fell to my knees, begging, praying to be let free. I could scarcely manage a whisper, but the words came out, and I knew so, for I heard a response.
Beneath the rug that lay on the opposite corner of the room to that of which I sat crouched, head buried between my knees, a voice sounded. Echoing off the black, ominous walls came a sultry, masculine voice, drowning out all my moral fibre by repeating those three sentences that were now fatal to my existence
“Lost you were. Trapped you are. Die you will!”
Lifting my head slightly, I reluctantly opened my eyes bit by bit, in an attempt to examine the source that had brought my worst nightmare to life, and beg it to spare me.
Though not even I could have prepared for the spectacle I saw before me. Reflecting off my grief-stricken eyes was the rug appearing to be levitating in mid-air, and beneath it a trap door lying open, persistently sounding off the end of my life. Mist soared out of the trap door, clouding my view of the rug, the window, the entire room.
“Please, spare me…” I begged.
I rocked back and forth, head between my knees, tears streaming down my face, pleas for help departing my lips as I sat in a corner of a room, without escape, communication, waiting anxiously for it all to end, for my life to end.
At last, it stopped. The voice died down, yet the mist remained. I felt fragile, for I couldn’t see where the voice had got to, or what was going to happen to me. Too frightened to stand up and attempt escape, I sat anxiously, recollecting what a dreadful day this had been. I resumed my tactic of comfort my drowning out the ominous sounds that surrounded me by talking to myself
“The old lady was right. This is a very strange, peculiar house. And whose voice was that? What did it want from me? Where is it? When will it come get me?”
And with those questions in mind; I rocked myself gently back and forth, with a coarse voice, weakened body, sweaty brow, inside the dark, quiet room, waiting anxiously for the voice to answer my last question…
