The creaking. It is all that I can focus my mind upon. The constant creaking of the rocking chair against the floorboards. Back and forth, back and forth, day and night; in its own solemn way as though weeping, sobbing through the hours.
No one dares venture the stairs to the forgotten room, the carpet of dust an impenetrable psychological barrier as though a constant reminder there has to be a reason no one has ventured for so long.
Oh how we used to ponder what truly lay beyond those doors, fear far overshadowed this desire for knowledge however, so we used to play games- tricks as such. We would stand in the courtyard to the large manor and stare at the attic window, straining our eyes for a glimpse of the horror which lay within, and, upon dissatisfaction, would hurl stones upon the glass (never enough to shatter, just enough to make a satisfying cracking sound and bounce back to the ground below.) Never was a response gained, and as winter drew nearer, the game lost its appeal. December rolled around bringing with it bitter cold and a foreboding snow-shower falling thick and fast settling a layer of uncertainness upon the town. It is the great fear of the unknown in which we shy away from most, not knowing why lies beyond. The day it happened was about mid-December and the house was decorated most festively, candles were lit and stocking were hung above the lit and roaring fireplace. Oh how I used to love sitting in front of that fire, watching the auburn flames licking the hearth in a greedy manner, the colours morphing most beautifully from raging auburn to a dribbling yellow and eventually fading into a wilted grey. I had spent the day in town for a catch-up with some of the gang, Sarah, Ben, Hannah and some of the usual lot. We had left rather late, being caught up in each other’s company, and it was as I left Ben at the mouth of the woods that I realized how dark it was becoming. I lingeringly watched him make his way up the path to where his house lay at the end, and stared with fright at the rigid barrier which lay before me. Blackened like cinders the silhouettes stood against the night sky, their spindled braches intertwined in a disconcerting manner. They gripped each other tightly, menacingly like gnarled fists shaking angrily at the sky. This web of branches created a canopy above my head, and as I walked I could feel my features sliding in and out of focus as they shattered the moonlight upon my face. Frosted branches paved the floor beneath my feet, and I fearfully stumbled my way deeper into the forest, my shallow ragged breaths the only sound to break the roaring noise of silence. I could feel my hair had tumbled loose from its braid and was hanging heavily and hinderingly upon my shoulders, pulling me back, the usual dirty blonde practically luminescent beneath the moonlight. A fierce winter wind ripped angrily at my body, violently biting my face and tugging ragingly at my clothes. I daren’t slow. My footsteps were becoming louder with each step I took yet the hot pulse of blood thrashing through my body was that fragment louder. I felt it pulsing faster and faster, hotter and hotter with every step and I quickened to a run, it felt oh so warm against the cold winter air. My coat was named ‘perfect-white’ yet my complexion was positively ghost-like in comparison. I focused on the sound of my feet, the creaking they made upon the branches littering the floor. The creak, creak, creak creak.
I ran for five minutes solid until a soaring pain of shot through my chest and I was forced stop and take breath. I focused on the continuous creak of my footsteps. It was then I realised I was no longer moving. Creak creak, creak creak…
Those sounds which seemingly haunted my every move. The moon shrouded behind a cloud, the trees ground their branches together in a gut-wrenching way and the wind whistled and howled, louder and louder the sounds grew, yet not loud enough. I broke into a sprint with all my energy and courage, a deep sick feeling clawing the pit of my stomach. I ran and ran into the darkness, my feet stumbling and stumbling, falling and falling…nothing…
Creak creak, creak creak. I rock back and forth upon the rocking chair, my gnarled fingers clutching the solid wood in a bountiful attempt to somehow control my existence. Since the dreaded fall, oh so long ago, which paralysed me from the shoulders down, I have been confined to my chair. Stuck in a bout of time. I peer out of my window from watering blue eyes, my hair resting warmly against my shoulders, and I ignore the stones thrown against my window, the taunts and shouts from below. I focus on the young girl with transcendent locks and a white coat, and try to warn her, yet no sound can escape my lips. I shake my hair and dry my tears, passing my days in the only way I can- rocking back and forth, back and forth. Creak creak, creak creak.
