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Elizabeth Evelyn Stember

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Member Since: Jun, 2003

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Innocent Trespass
By Elizabeth Evelyn Stember
Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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If you think a Clive Barker freak of nature is gonna jump out in this...go away, especially if young blood spilt turns your stomach. Writen sometime in 2006 in class.

 

     The rumors that surrounded this old house didn’t seem to visibly spook the six year old child who stood by her favorite stuffed animal that was clutched tightly in her little arms. Such rumors consisted of the almost laughable atrocities that would take place by supernatural means, the supposed moonlight blood baths, the horrible ghosts who could not or would not move on for lack of appeasement and of course the legend of the Homicidal Chandelier which could kill you in more than one way. Her source for all these horror stories that would normally scare an adult but only sufficed to pique an interest was her older brother and his group of friends. Their story was somewhat flimsy to be best, but it happened before she was born and her parents didn’t like speaking of it.
 
    Before she was born, they told her repeatedly. Or it was soon after her birth and she wouldn’t remember anyways. It didn’t matter.
 
    Her bright blue eyes stared at the almost decaying by the moment structure, as if the ancient building was a plagued sinner unable to grab at any innocent for the forsaken action the sickness denied. There was minimal graffiti outside, most of the horrible smells and visual damage was caused by the empty beer bottles or cans and the used condoms littering the ground in and around the house. The butts of different smoking implements added to the trailer park trash effect. It wasn’t those kinds of people that made this place as run-down as it seemed.
 
     It was a sad beauty, but that wouldn’t stop the child from going inside to satisfy her own curiosity. The porch steps was here first obstacle, they seemed so worn from time as well as other things that her light weight could cause the aged wood to shatter into pieces beneath her; or they could give way to drop her down to the basement to break her leg and die from not being able to move.
 
     Her caution and worry were for nothing, for the steps were build so well that even after the abuse it had to withstand through the years they easily supported the weight her body presented to it. Her tummy seeming to attempt wriggling out of her navel in a sort of instinct that wasn’t quite fear, but apprehension of what would happen if she got caught. Swallowing rank and somewhat stale air, she steadied herself by holding the banister which no longer had paint on it and was in desperate need of a sanding to keep from splinters. Carefully she pulled herself up to the next step, the step she left behind giving a silent groan that she could barely hear over her excited pulse. Weight shifted; the stuffed toy almost under her as she made a slow steady pace to the front door with the peeling paint and shattered glass window. The step beneath her gave a slightly louder moan then the last, as if half protested and half joyous the pressure was not intended to slam down on it.
     A movement out of the corner of her eye gave her pause, looking around at the porch and a little behind her. The belly wriggles were getting worse as her lower lip wobbled a little. Her light red hair was in a small ponytail at the nape of her neck, the short sleeved shirt not keeping her warm from the dead rank chill of the air.  With the weather seeming as if it was not sure if it was fall yet or summer still. Almost every step had some small protest under her feet, be it a minor groan that could barely be heard over the pounding blood in her ears to a large ear twitching wail less than a second long; each squeak no matter the volume made her shudder as if she was about to get beaten.
 
     The last step offered no such noise in congratulations as she stood on the porch, holding her breath as if to keep from whimpering. The lack of such a noise, possible encouragement or disapproval from the house, made her bite for a moment at her bottom lip.
 
     “Doesn’t look too bad, huh Rupey?” she whispered, probably to calm her nerves as she pulled the toy away from her small body long enough as if expecting the cuddly item to speak.
 
     If it could, it did not, the glitter of the marble like eyes dulled by the scratches on them as if it had many years of abuse before it even came into her care; the stitched mouth outline stayed in that care free manner, whether those that had created or designed it to seem caring or careless of it’s owner wasn’t under anyone’s knowledge.
 
     “You’re right,” she murmured softly and in a determined tone as she held the bear close again. “We might as well get inside. Maybe the door is unlocked?”
 
     Her little hand barely put force upon the elongated door knob, the door swinging inside easily with little to know effort on her part. The loud creak hit a pitch the girl was sure no wicked witch could match, the rust being ground off was falling around the hinges all the way the door turned. Slowly at that horrid noise the door revealed the inside to be in not so much good care as the outside, but it wasn’t as bad as the picture her brother and his buddies painted for her with their words.
 
     There was quite a bit of damage, some recent and some much older then she was. The recent damage was obvious, the glass on the floor and the litter all around it. She frowned at this.
     With the right mind, this place can be fixed, good as new. But since no one would admit to owning the place, no one would repair it at all. The local authorities didn’t have any interest in this place or didn’t have enough to tear it down.
 
     A determined look came on her face; steadily putting the bear so its pillowy legs straddled her hips like would make a child of her size do if they were to be carried around on the hip, her little feet stepping in careful exploration. She was going to put some of the junk in its right place, which was the trash. If she could find the right bin or container for it. But she had luck, bottles and cans soon clinking as they were deposited with most of the other trash inside the can she found muffling noise and keeping things from breaking.
 
     Soon the downstairs looked a bit better except for the glass on the floor. She hadn’t found a broom, or a little brush and dust pan. However, she knew she couldn’t use either while keeping a protective hold on her bear. If she came by again in the near future, she would try to clean this up.
 
     Something had creaked, making her stiffen. Was someone in there with her?
 
     Her tiny head looked up, slowly moving towards the steps as well. Her feet moved towards the steps too, the carpet seeming to blanket no sound from the air. He tiptoed not straight to the stairs, but in a sort of circle around the room hugging the wall; the rumored Homicidal Chandelier was right above the skinny toothpick child, and could easily shatter her life like her mother spanked her when she misbehaved. No emotion. No drama. Just simple punishment as if it was a daily chore.
 
     The threadbare carpet was more sound absorbent as she believed, going up the mute steps one at a time, a sensation rising from her belly up to her throat, keeping her from swallowing the repressed instinct to run back home.
 
     Something flashed in the chandelier, causing the girl to look to the light shiner as she shifted her position so she would not be blinded. A little mirror was in the crystal light amplifier, her own face reflected on the smooth surface, as if dust had never touched it.
 
     She leaned over the railing as much as she could without falling, gazing intently as if possessed to find a hidden piece of a puzzle that only she could locate.
 
     The mirror frame was simple; a crack from the upper right corner made its crooked web line towards the middle then stopped halfway through. However, the crack didn’t seem to interrupt her reflection. The background behind her was not that of the wall that stood behind her real self either.
 
    She backed away when she saw the angle her head was at in the looking glass was not only not how her head was positioned, but that the angle that no living thing could accomplish. And was that blood at the corner of her reflections mouth?!
 
     A loud ‘thud’ caught her attention at the top of the stairs; a door that was open creaked as a draft whooshed a stale taste of natural decay past her. An unreal growl sounded as what looked like a robe of a vile black seemed to come out for her.
 
     She turned to run, the stuffed animal that was at this point in only one hand when she looked at the mirror the first thing her foot touched. Her eyes widened as the panic and fear flew from her throat, her head crashing into a step and pushing her neck out of alignment, blocking her air and stopping all nerves from the throat down to feel anything. Her tumble was not a light one, a few bones were broken in the violent decent, the bear resting a few steps above where she finally lay, it’s sewn face down to the floor.
 
    The six year old could not register anything. Her neck was broken, and her head was facing the left while her body was on its back, shoulders leaning towards the right. Some blood trickled from her mouth, little eyes wide as the blinking had ceased. Upstairs, in the room that triggered Death’s invitation for the soul below, a window was open, a small and mostly round paper weight rolling around some on the floor and the black curtain blowing back and forth at the breeze coming in from the outside unconscious of what it had wrought. Unfeeling of the lost innocence of a life so young. Merciless against the uninvited kindness the girl committed.

 


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Reviewed by Nickolaus Pacione 7/12/2013
Holy Shit -- you are definitely Nick's daughter. I like this a lot
Reviewed by Masood Lohar 4/17/2008
Dear Elizabeth

Allow me to tell you that you are going to win the Booker's if you ever write a novel. You have a rare combination of KING (for creating details) and KUNDERA (for painting the tragedy). The way you paint details is really superb. I wish you were my co-author on my under-pen novel "Original Sinner", that is basically about the history of SATAN.

Masood
Reviewed by richard cederberg 3/27/2008
A nice one - engrossing from start to finish. Good imagery.
Richard


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