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27 March 2008
36. The Intruder
There it was again. Feet. I’m sure it was feet. Shoes. Yes, it was probably the sound of feet in shoes. Not my own, of course. And not Kidman’s.
This time, however, there was no daylight, not even moonlight. I had felt it coming on, a kind of premonition of fear. Although nothing untoward had occurred earlier in the day when I’d ventured out into the hallway, an underlying anxiety had smouldered away inside, a little sickly and raw feeling, like a fragile coating over everything, like a little virus coming-on. As darkness quickly muscled daylight out of the equation, my uncertainty grew, but as a peripheral thing at first, hanging over me, before burrowing down inside.
The sound had fallen on the wooden floor somewhere further down the main hallway. Had the sound travelled down the flight of stairs to the cellar perhaps? Possibly. I thought briefly of shouting out, warning the intruder that I was there – but the thought died away remarkably quickly like a whispered vowel-sound would if sounded within a gale. That kind of buxom, sassy challenge wasn’t for me! Paint my face black and lean me against an ashtray, making like an old, extinguished match, was more my style! Putting a pen on my head and pretending to be a fancy pen-holder, that would suit me better! Or opening up a book in both hands and standing as still as a lectern! Perhaps open my mouth wide, raise my arms, and pretend I’m a sex doll! Hell, I’d rather lick my arse in a corner, playing the part of the house’s resident pet golden retriever! Or even standing in the corner with pee down my leg and pretending I’m a modern art installation! Yep, even that was preferable!
I looked at Kidman and Kidman looked at me. Quite quickly I realised that she’d be no help at all. I think it was the fact that she again decided to bury her head in the comfy chair and extend her arse upwards that gave the game away!
From inside a small flowery cushion where her face was hidden I heard her muffled voice: “Hake high had-hice! Hetend hoo hon’t hear hany-hing!”
“Some lot of use you are!” I snarled in a vitriolic whisper.
“Hank-hoo. Hood huck! Hool heed hit!”
I was on my own again, and again inching towards the door. Again I looked at those feeble and precarious screws that kept the lock within the door. I was tempted to rest my head against the door to hear better, but what if there was someone outside and a forceful kick or shove suddenly struck the door? It might give in a moment and injure me. Instead, I hovered on tip-toe somewhere close beside it, ear cocked and head craned, a lock of hair in my hand and due pressure applied for nerves’ sake.
Then I remembered. I’d left the door of the archive room open in the hope that some of the dust might decide to make a bold bid for freedom! If the intruder was heading down to the cellar then they would be able to get access to everything that was in there! But, if this was some burglar, what would they want with old files? Maybe the computer though might interest them!
All of a sudden the sounds beyond the door became more confident, less furtive and surreptitious, more violent and frustrated even. There was banging and clattering - the sound of filing cabinet drawers being opened and slammed shut, of papers being strewn, of objects being barged and toppled.
I could hear breathing in amongst it all – rapid, agitated. I stepped back from the door and gradually, as the sounds increased, the steps I took became larger. I found myself standing beside a light-switch and I automatically flicked it off and plunged myself into darkness that I hoped would conceal my presence. Only the light in the sitting-room where Kidman was remained.
Whoever was downstairs in the archive room was becoming increasingly frantic. The familiar, nameable sounds were suddenly replaced by something like heavy, metallic banging that resounded through the house. I clutched my ears and I think I gasped – I’m not sure, I might have. The sound was raucous and unselfconscious, something akin to an ancient army beating shields as it advanced. I placed my hand on my chest. My breathing was becoming noisier. A slight wheezing sound was beginning to manifest and I felt myself edge into a corner at the back of the short corridor, angled sideways, while trying desperately to calm myself in order to soothe and regulate my breathing.
Then, without warning, the hammering sound stopped. The only audible sound was me – in-out, in-out, like small bellows working madly. Silence returned beyond my rooms. In fact, not even the previous sound of footsteps could be heard. Through the darkness, I could see light from the main hallway like simple, thin neon strips coming through the edges of the door-frame. A deft and gentle click-sound, and the light in the hall beyond was extinguished. I gasped, I’m sure. Through the doorway to the sitting-room I could see a part of Kidman’s dress but nothing else. My hands were shaking and my heartbeat was like a numbing, persistent pain. And, in that little corner of the corridor, I sank down to my knees and tried to make myself smaller and smaller, as my breathing turned to a rasp, my mouth open and gasping.
A creak. Right outside of the door. A tiny rattle. The door handle gripped on the outside. Then, all of a sudden, I could see light – not much, but milky white and coming under the door from the bottom left-hand corner. There was a gasp from outside the door and from what appeared to be a male voice. Then a sudden intake of breath and a kind of gurgle. The light increased slightly. Was it a torch? Had someone else arrived outside? Then there was a kind of sharp moan and the scuffle of feet. The scuffle turned into running, down the hallway and then across the gravel outside of the house. Who could this be now? Had one demon left, only to be replaced by a fiercer one?
Then it struck me just who was outside the door: the astronaut. The light under the door moved around, dimming then intensifying. My breathing was worsening. I was gasping, trying to squeeze the air in and out of me, but I couldn’t move to get an inhaler. I was transfixed, terrified - then terrified even more as I heard a new sound, like the scraping of a glove against the door. Slow, strained but desperate and determined.
Almost from nowhere, Kidman! She was in the doorway, the light turning her into a mere hint and blush of shadows. She had grabbed a handful of her dress and was moving her body away from me and back into the sitting-room. “Take my advice, sweetheart!” she said. “Pee on his electrics and run like a bastard! See ya!”
I extended my hand towards her for help but I was unable to speak. It would have done no good though. She continued turning away and ran back into the sitting-room and out of sight. The scraping continued, rhythmic, cloying and eerily hypnotic.
Just as I expected the clawing to intensify, the light suddenly disappeared. A different silence surrounded me. The unmistakable silence of aftermath.
The intruder was gone and the astronaut was gone. I knew it instantly. I moved towards the kitchen area – that was where my inhaler was located. But I could only move by slowly crawling on the floor. I hadn’t the energy for anything more. I found the inhaler, it shook in my hands as I continued to tremble, I used it and then I cried as I felt instant relief for my breathing, as well as my fear abating.
I didn’t sleep in my bed that night – last night – I slept in my hallway instead, in the little corner that I had earlier squeezed myself into, and with a kitchen knife and a hammer at my side.
And no sign of Kidman at all. Nothing.
What can I possibly have opened in opening that archive room? How could I have been so foolish! This isn’t me! Philip was right. I’m nothing! Like he said: I’m a small ball and I should just let other people bounce me.
Want to read more? Read the whole story by clicking on the first blog called Prelude and start clicking forwards using the tabs above the title.
09:00 Posted in Part Two: Getting Some Answers | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this | Tags: haunted house, ghost story, horror story, astronaut, space, nicole kidman, journal