literature

Gothic Story

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Literature Text

Fixing my gaze on the dilapidated mansion before me, I inhaled deeply, preparing myself for what I was going to do.  The house looked significantly more threatening in the tranquil glow of the moonlight, dusted with snow that appeared almost silver in this light.  Its ominous presence called out to me like a siren song, and I stepped forwards, forcing the last inklings of doubt away.  I took in the scenery around me as I strode onwards, clutching my cloak more tightly around myself, noticing my breath coming out in white clouds.  The trees towered into the night sky, gnarled trunks cracked and shining with ice, branches clenched like angry fists.

The old iron gate clattered open when I pushed it, creaking loud enough to make me cringe and look around to see if anyone had heard it. Of course, at this time of night, the only wakeful creatures were the wildlife.  The foreboding atmosphere that this building emitted reinforced the fact that I thought I shouldn't have been here, and now I was subconsciously making excuses to leave.  Mentally shaking myself, I passed the gate and came to the oak front door.  It was still imposing, even though the wood looked almost withered, drained like the rest of this house.

I can't remember much about my childhood home, only that it seemed to die when my mother did.  I remember it being so beautiful when I was young, always a new room to explore, always a friendly face, always something that made it feel like home.  But it changed when my mother died.  It changed, and I can hardly remember a thing.  I can't remember what it was like growing up, and it suddenly struck me after I had moved out that I was an adult and hardly knew how I had gotten there.  I knew I'd been informed that my father was dead, but I didn't know why.  There were so many things I didn't know, yet needed to.  Why couldn't I remember anything?  Why did this house feel so threatening when it had once been my home?  Why was the house in such an appalling condition?

Shuddering as I stepped inside, I glanced around the foyer, trying to familiarise myself.  Cobwebs crept up the walls and clung to corners, hanging down like flaky icicles.  It smelt damp and made my skin itch, almost feeling as cold as it had been outside.  The panelled walls, seemingly once so grand and shining, were dark and looked rotten, though still very much with the fashion.  As far as I knew, this room would have been used for greeting and holding party guests for events my parents might have hosted.  I shook my head, turning to the first door on the left.

This room was the drawing room.  It had the potential to be a beautiful room, with a high ceiling and large windows, but any charm it had once had was now faded, faded like the old fabric on the furniture, faded like my memories of this place.  My eyes took in the dusty curtains, partially eaten away by moths, hanging limply over windows.  The gaping maw of the fireplace looked as if it would swallow me up, so I averted my gaze and sunk down onto a once plush armchair.  That's when it hit me.

The scent of alcohol seemed almost overwhelming, perhaps somewhat stale and stagnant but definitely prominent.  I remembered sitting here as a child and watching my mother work on her embroidery.  My father would also sit; the fire would be lit and he would sip from countless glasses of whisky or whatever else took his fancy.  He'd be relaxed sometimes, smiling at me, pondering quietly to himself.  Sometimes he'd be very happy, joking and unusually friendly.  The step above that was far worse.  His face would contort into expressions of anger and he'd slosh his drink around, spilling it carelessly and shouting obscenities.  I remember my mother would strain to ignore him, shaking fingers still working meticulously at the embroidery on her lap; she wouldn't look him in the eye if he grabbed at her, not satisfying his desire to disrupt and intimidate.  As a child, all I could do was stop and stare, wide eyes witnessing things I shouldn't have been exposed to.  He spilled his drink all over me after a particularly flailing fit of anger, and the stench lingered on my skin for days, seeping down into my pores until I could almost taste it.

I shuddered, wrenching myself away from this nightmare of a memory.  It was a bad memory, yes, but was it really bad enough to cause me to black it out completely?  My curiosity took me out of the room, back into the foyer to take the stairs to the first floor.  The steps groaned beneath my feet, unnerving me and urging me to quicken my pace.

I don't know what it was that drew me to the latch in the ceiling that would take me to the attic, but for some reason, I knew I had to go there.  I knew on instinct that I would find the device to open the door and pull down the stairs propped against the wall, and pulled down the creaking ladder.  It was with trepidation that I climbed up, skin catching on the splintered wood and my mumbled curses seeming amplified.  As my head rose above the hatch opening, a foul odour attacked my nostrils, disgusting enough that I could feel the bile rising up in my throat.  It was like nothing I had ever smelt before, putrid and piercing and incomprehensively rancid.

I should have turned back there and then.  I should have known that it was a bad idea coming up here.  I shouldn't have even come here in the first place.

But no.

Standing up fully, I climbed into the attic, glancing around.  Other than that appalling stench, nothing seemed out of the ordinary; all objects were dust-covered and damaged, to some extent, and the large window let the moonlight in, casting various shadows onto the wooden floorboards.  One shadow in particular seemed especially peculiar...

Good God.

Frantically, I spun around, seeking the source of this morbid apparition.  Increasingly ragged breathing came to a complete halt and my heart thudded as if it were a drum hit by an enthusiastic player.  My eyes widened to the extent that tears leaked out to rehydrate their dryness.  I wanted to stagger backwards, to immediately run and just get away from this, but it was as if I were wearing concrete shoes, completely unable to move myself.

My eyes bored into what would have been my father's, had they not rotted away with time and decay.  The emptiness of his facial features from the hang man's noose seemed to imprint itself upon my retinas, and suddenly, it all came flooding back.

Money had not been coming in so easily when I was younger, a teenager, perhaps, and the strain was evident.  Maybe it didn't seem to affect me that much, but it drove my father insane.  He said drinking calmed him down, made him forget. Maybe he did forget his horrendous behaviour, the way he treated his own family, but it was too much in the end.  I could understand why I had blacked out the memory of me calling for my parents yet never receiving a response.  I could understand why I wanted to forget the sounds of my father choking on his last breath, thrashing around in the noose.  I could understand why I didn't want to remember the emptiness of my mother's eyes as she sat in her chair by the fire, seemingly peaceful, but with a forgotten goblet lying on the floor, its poison contents spilling onto the floor.  I ran around aimlessly after that, flailing in pure panic, running into the drawing room fireplace and knocking myself out.  The next time I woke up, I was in my uncle's house, concerned faces looming over me, questioning if I knew what had happened.  I had no clue.  I could not remember, and accepted their well-meaning lies.  They had the best intentions at heart.

Seemingly coming to my senses, I shook myself and stumbled back to the trapdoor, planning to flee the house.  Maybe if I was really lucky, I'd knock myself out again and forget this ever happened.
I was looking on my pendrive today and found this. Reading back, I think it's pretty good, so I hope you'll like it!

Also, I finished my Open University course, and for my final piece I got 70%. After I've improved it further (I had to keep to a word limit), I'll definitely post it here, because I'm kind of in love with the idea of it.

THIS piece I did as practise for my GCSE English work last year or maybe the year before. Received top marks, so I'm quite pleased with it.

Enjoy!
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kristinerose's avatar
That was awesome. I love how it all had to do with the mind. Ah sealed memories. I really can relate to the kid. Very well done.