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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:
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 ...
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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…
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