Haunted Within -

Night Black Stars

Soft light

plays through

the attic window

sending starry particles

of dust

floating away

as Frank moves

to the other side of the room.

There is a sound

just outside of the range

of hearing,

a black noise

that comes and goes

when he tries to concentrate

on its source.

He moves slowly,

fixated on the sound.

The brush

of his pants rubbing

as he moves

overpowers

the faint noise.

A deep breath

from over his shoulder

and

Frank turns quickly.

Nothing.

The sun will be setting soon.

The sounds will become louder.

The house will become cold,

and

Frank will begin

to feel them again.

It is as if they crawl

into his blood,

move through his veins,

and

pump into his heart

where they know

the fear hides.

His brow becomes wet

as a chill runs

along

the length of his spine.

Frank closes the attic door

and

bolts the top lock.

From somewhere deep in his mind,

he can hear them laughing

like a child enamored

with a new toy.

The stairs creak as he descends,

shuffling through

the thin layer of dust

that has collected there

since he was here last.

He makes his way

along

the hall

and

closes the final door

that shuts this end

of the house

off from the rest.

A trail of salt

is mounded up

at the threshold to the kitchen.

There are markings

in black ink on the walls,

small circlets

and

ancient script.

Bundles of sage

hang

from above the stove.

Frank lifts

the glass of whiskey

from the table

and

throws back its contents.

He grits his teeth

through the sting

of alcohol

and

places the glass on the table.

He pours himself another,

and

takes a seat.

Staring at the nub

of candle

in the middle of the table,

Frank’s mind wanders.

He can’t help

but think

that this is a dream,

that he fell asleep

at some point

before moving to the old house,

and

now he is stuck.

Unwashed dishes are stacked in the sink.

Dried food clings to the plates.

Several empty bottles

of whisky

are lined up

in a row

on the counter.

Frank runs

his hand

along his chin,

feeling at the stubble.

A loud bang echoes from the attic door.

Frank looks over his shoulder

and

gazes out at the setting sun

from the kitchen window

behind him.

“Right on time,” he says.

Another loud bang,

and

it sounds if the door

is about to

splinter.

Frank empties

the glass of whisky

and

hurls the glass

through the doorway.

The glass descends,

clanks against the floor,

and

shatters.

Salt scatters.

Frank’s eyes widen.

He feels the cold

against his face

like icy breath

whispering death

to his skin.

The table upturns

and

crashes to the floor.

Frank is hurled

through the air

and

lands stiffly

against the wall.

He tries to move,

but

his arms are pinned.

He looks down

at his dangling feet

and

coughs out a whimper

before

he is flung to the floor.

As he lies

with his face

against

the cool kitchen tile,

he feels something

at the back of his head.

Fingers entwine

through his hair

and

his head suddenly lifts.

There’s a child

playing in a pool

of blood

at the base of the cabinets

below the sink.

The child’s mouth

is sewn tight

with thick black thread.

Where its eyes should be

are nothing more

than cavernous sockets

filled with dark red.

Frank gasps

before his head

is slammed

into the floor.

With every lift of his head,

his eyes fill

with tear laden images

of the child

smearing its face

in the blood

that is pooled around it.

The child’s face is inches from his own.

Its sewn mouth curves into a smile

that tears

at the thread

looped through its lips.

And then his head

crashes into the floor again,

and

there is nothing

but

darkness.