Writings

 THE HOUSE

NOTE:  This is a quick sketch or rough draft of a short story I'm working on.  I realize there may be some continuity issues, but all in all it's going to be a part of the final draft. 


         My wife is asleep, her arm draped across me, and the baby in her crib. I try to join them, but the sounds keep me awake. In the darkness my senses are amplified. Bump. Crack. Howls and hoots from somewhere outside. It's the home; the stiffness from the old boards trying to work its self out. "It's just the house," I tell myself. I wish there was some truth to that.

         There are things that are trying to get me, trying to eat me. My wife says its all in my head; she laughs at the notion. I quit telling her about the noise a while back. Now, I listen in silence. It's not the old boards groaning. It's not mice. It's not some varmint that's made its home in the eaves of the home. It's the house its self that is trying to get me. I know the sound of mice or birds or dogs, this is not that. The house is making the sounds of scratching and clawing, it's alive. There are things that are a part of this house, if they're demons or some other creatures I don't know. I can't see them, but I know they're their. They hide.


         The house's arms reach, search for cracks, anyway it can to dig at my nerves, my sanity. The home's creatures want to get me while I sleep. But I don't sleep. I barely keep from laughing when I think of how clever I am. I close my eyes but sleep doesn't come. I trained myself not to fall completely asleep.


         I hover between lucidity and consciousness. There's a fine line that I take to help me stay safe. If I enter rem then I won't be able to wake up. That's fine the hands will get in. I figured it was my mind that kept them at bay.