Old Wounds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a everything-comes-around story about a man who did something harmless a long time ago. No fault but he is plagued by nightmares as he lives in the same house where the victimless crime
happened long ago.

Submitted: August 18, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 18, 2018



From the house on Temple Street, there is a sound of a scream that no one heard. The woman that pierced the quiet tranquility of that scream skipped back from the mailbox with her hand on her chest and her heart beating irregularly. She fell over dead with her face pointing up to the sky on a cloudy day like most any other day after this crime is over.

Now in a span of twenty two years later, the man that committed the crime is sitting in the living room of the same home with a bottle of vodka on the IKEA coffee table with his mind bopping from side to side from the drunken daze that is infecting him. Along with the nightmares that are infecting his life on the waking ground. He hoped not allure to the nightmares when he passes out on this night. He hoped that the nightmares will not succumb to the suicide that is quaking in his mind.

He wiped the crust from his eyes when he eyed the painting on the wall in curious bemusement. The painting is from one of the local artists that had passed away in a car accident some years back when he cocked his head from the side. The painting is subjective when he looked into the eyes of the woman that is on the strokes, seeing through those eyes of darkness when he looked at it for the longest time. He swirled the glass that is in his hand when he swore he heard the sound of a dog howling in the night. He moved to the edge of his seat a little when the clock in the parlor continued to tick. Beside him is the famous blade that is in the cubby space of the recliner. Van Meerson is a bank manager by trade during the trade, keeping the accounts of money in the books and firing people that are someone dipping their hands into the cookie jar. He fired three people last week with one woman claiming that she will kill him if she ever sees him again.

That is likely not ever to happen when he smiled, killing off his liver when he took another dive into the alcohol that is getting sweeter and sweeter by the minute as the clock continued to tick off by each passing minute. The alcohol never dried when his smiled turned into a corkscrew of mismanagement, thinking of the past when he thought of Miss Verne with her ape that lived in her house. The ape is what everyone knew when he remembered a movie a long time ago:

What was that movie? Was the movie called, “Link” or something? It was about an ape that killed people in a house. I don’t remember the entire movie but I’m sure what that movie was called.

 Van got up to do his natural chore in the bathroom then wound up in the kitchen to get a chicken dinner from the top shelf of the fridge. He is back in the living room with the microwave purring on the counter space. He refilled his glass and sat back in the chair with a star shooting across the sky. The hour is getting late but who is to care? The hour does not mean anything. No one tells him when to come in and go from work. He is on salary so who in the hell is to care?

He continued to drink when he thinks of Miss Verne and the ape that she owned before the fear in the mailbox killed her. Van didn’t mean to do it. He only wanted to get a good laugh out of it with little knowing that she had a long history of heart complications. The ape that was in her care wound up in a zoo where Van heard they did things to him that wound up for the ape to kill three workers before being shot to death by a pair of cops.

It took five shots of buck to put him down. I swear! The cops that reported the incident on paper leaked to the media that is stated on the news sometime later.

Van couldn’t remember what the ape’s name is when he sat there in the recliner with his hand holding the glass that is on the arm of the recliner. He swirled it in his hand when he thought of mother, his sweet darling mother who is still alive that is living up on Sweetheart Hill where there used to be a church there that burned down in the early twentieth century. His mother is in her late eighties now when she can swear that she cannot hear the sound of a ringing phone anymore.

Van chuckled at this with his sympathy not felt, raising the glass to the painting when he dropped it onto his lips. He took it from his lips when a knock came from the attic that moved from the upstairs.

Damn rats. There are always those damn rats that are in the ceiling and in the rafters.

Van need to call the exterminator when he shook his head with a thunderous ploy of anger on his lips. The cell phone is on the table as well with the charge of it reading forty eight percent. He needed not to call anyone on this night when he heard the sound of something scraping upon the window that is in the room. Van got up and went to the window, rolling up the shade when he sees the branch that is dancing upon the window.

Van rolled the shade down with his eyes meagerly opening and closing. He sat back down again when a knock came upon the ceiling again. What a damn shame, living in the house where his secret crime has happened. He told no one about Miss Verne and the fake snake that is in the mailbox when he kept that to himself, holding on this for so many years when he looked at himself in the mirror upon every morning.

Miss Verne. Why did you open that mailbox? I didn’t mean it. I’m sure not to mean it.

He sat in the room that serves his secret torment for so many years when he looked out the window around the town that never changes no matter how old he gets. The change will never come until the end of the world draw near and changes the ordinary into monsters and madmen, killer and abusers, rapists and coveters. The truth is always in bloodshed. The truth is always in the sands of summer and the snows in the winter.

It just takes enough energy to find it. Van knew of this when he sat in his house of torment with no papers to write this down. If he did then that would mean that he is guilty of his convictions and that proof would sight him to what he did to Miss Verne. He placed his hand on the side of his temple and smacked it a little.

He felt very little at this time when he sat back in the recliner when the knock became a boom and the boom became something that jumped him out of his chair.

“What in the world was that?” Van looked into the darkness of the hallway. The pouncing on the ceiling became cynical dances that are above him. The bumps moved and glistened in the light when he swore that the glass on the arm of the recliner is half full. It is full again when the bumps on the ceiling ceased after a half minute. He sat down with his mind still turning in splendid worry.

“What in the world was that?” Van called out again with no cuts on his hand but the cut that is from something that is unnoticed to him. He raised his hand to see the wound that is on his palm.

The glass is still on the arm of the recliner when it happened before and it happened before since. The glass on the upstairs sill bent forward. The patterns of the ceiling warped out towards him in the middle of the night. The nightmares got worse and worse when they started off weird that goes horribly wrong in a quick notice. He felt the barking sweat on the corners of his eyes when he woke, jumping out of the bed and running into the wall when he encompassed sleep once again. When he woke, he thought the door was off its hinges and planted at his feet, standing up with nothing holding it. He blinked when the door is gone now, back upon its hinges and settled into the trim of the doorway when he blinked again.

He went to work that day with no thought of anything wrong with the house before he went home and considered to drink upon this night again. He woke up to the sound of the clock not ticking for more than five seconds when the tick came to his ears again. When he looked at the room, there is no doorway out. Why? Then the doors appeared again. What in the hell is wrong with this house?

Then the weekend showed up and he left that house to go out to a booze haul where he got into a fight with three men and two women that kicked him in the family jewels. It was such a good weekend when he came home on a Sunday night with a light on in the living room.

He didn’t turn on that light when something boomed in the attic space that he never went up to. The house is off – he knew. He thought about calling the exterminator and the exorcist but not back to back. That would cause a lot of heads to turn in the neighborhood. He kept the light on at night when he slept in a drunken stupor in the living room. Did he still have his keys in the car? He didn’t know when he woke up in the early morning hours of Monday. He went to his office smelling like a saloon with the papers being pushed across the desk.

After the day is done, he went to the store to do some grocery shopping. He got home when he thumbed his key into the lock and the key broke into the lock.

“What in the hell,” He stammered when the remainder of the key in the lock spat out and hit him in the belly, dropping him to his knees when he later that night sees the welt that is on his stomach. He sat there upon his knees for more than a minute before getting up.

Who is he going to call? No one will believe him when he knew that the door is unlocked as he opened the door and closed it. Later that day before the sun went down; he unscrewed the deadbolt from the front door and disassembled it. He tried to get the key out of it when he clamored the piece out of the lock but couldn’t. He noticed that the locking barrel is warped when he thought of something that is ridiculous.

Did the key in the lock burn up by some thermal energy that came from somewhere?

All of it is absurd when he went to buy another dead bolt the next day. He installed it with ease when he had no other problem from the house for more than three months.

This night though is different when he swore that it is rats in the ceiling. It has to be. He cannot believe that he is going crazy. He sat in the recliner, filling up his glass when he is drinking his Vodka like beer now. He started to sweat as Van felt that his left arm is going numb. He stood and almost stumbled against the recliner when he stood up straight again, going to the kitchen to come back with his kitchen dinner when he came back to the living room.

He ate his chicken in silence with the numbness in his arm singing in pain a little. His heart smoothed back down to a gentle rhythm when he swore that the painting is straight that is sitting on the nail on the wall. The painting is crooked when he moved his plate and got up, correcting the painting on the wall and sitting down. He capped the vodka and set it next to his recliner when he gorged him on the chicken as he continued to eat. The walls in the living room bent forward when he didn’t hear it. The numbness in his arm feels weird when he moved it.

Then something happened when he felt the pain in the center of his chest. He groaned as he got up with the eaten chicken spilling out of his mouth, landing on the coffee table with sweat pouring down his face. He looked at the wall that is in the living room when he winced as the pain got severe. The walls continued to bend forward when he knew that it is a heart attack, looking at the painting that is still crooked on the wall when the wall bends forward to the man that is dying in the house that secretly holds his crime.

What horror is this; he thought when the ceiling above bent forward on a place off of the street named Temple. There is shriek that no one heard in the night as the dog howled in the neighborhood.

© Copyright 2018 Adam Steele. All rights reserved.

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