Cacophony of Hell

A wonder of sound landed sweetly on his ears.  To most, the odd mixture of noise would be too much, but to him, it was a symphony.  He sipped his rum and cola as the crackle of the fire sent ember fairies dancing up the chimney.  Has he watched, the patter of the rain was playing an ominous beat on his walls, windows, and rooftop.  The frequent roar of thunder and howl of wind added to the concerto.  The final crescendo was the bellow of the sea, as angry waves pounded the rocks of the cliff face that sat only a hundred yards out the large bay window of which he now viewed.

Steve Chadwick retired young, only forty-eight, but it is what his wife would have wanted.  The aspiring inventor cashed out of his family business, he no longer had the desire to deal with medical equipment.  Carol’s wish, the one regret-well there was two-was they never truly through up their hands, sold everything and bought a seaside bed and breakfast in England.  So, now he honored her.  He lifted his glass, watching the torrent outside, one year ago, she died of cancer, and three months later, they owned the beautiful Sandbur Manor, outside a small city in Wales.

There was plenty of work yet to do in the centuries old home, but tonight, his first night, was just his and hers.  No staff, no workers, no repairmen.  No, this evening was for just him, the beautiful display of nature outside, his rum, and her, or rather the memories of her.  Nothing was going to interfere with this simple, emotional ritual.

He thought to soon.  Lightning struck nearby, the windows rattled as the sound of the torn and excited air rippled throughout the house.  The lighting dimmed, briefly then returned to normal.  He realized that his shirt was now soaked, his glass also half-full.  He must have jumped, slightly he assumed.

As he scanned the large sitting room, all seemed well.  He took in a deep breath, but before he could finish, another rumble rolled through the house.  The darkness beyond the window illuminated with a cold blue as the lights indoors again flickered.  No, they pulsed, as if they were a heartbeat of someone being pulled back to life.  They throbbed on and off for several seconds, then again stayed on.

A scratching sound in the wall next to the fireplace caused him to turn quickly, examining the paneled partition.  It sounded again; he tilted his head, focusing, and thinking.  Rats, it sound like rats, or mice running amok, briefly, in the wall, it had to be.

Crack, another bolt struck.

Darkness

Light

Darkness

Light

Click – click - click

Again darkness, then light, the pulse continued for nearly ten seconds.  Steven shivered; his drinking glass was shattered on the floor.  The scurrying noise ran up the wall, in the wall, another rapidly behind him, across the floor.  His heart was racing, he felt dizzy, flush, but he stood, turned.

Nothing, the room was empty.  He turned, doing a three-sixty.  He was scared, he tried to think rationally, but he was nearing a panic.  He clenched his fist a few times, closed his eyes and breathed.  Opening them he focused on the flames of the fire, relaxing him, calming him to a state he could act rationally.  Slow down heart, he thought, slow down.  His breathing grew deeper, slower.

Then it happened again.  The thunder shook the house hard, the room was cast in a odd blue hue, the smell of electricity was crackling in the air.  The lights beat again in a rhythm, and then stayed dark.  The fire, it smiled at him, yes, it smiled and winked.  The face was a clear to him as the storm was outside.  He quickly backed away.

Something scurried past him, he felt it brush his leg, heard it trample through the broken glass.  Another must have leapt from the mantle, he could not see it, nor identify it.  Hit him in the shoulder and pounced off, tearing cloth and flesh with it.  He heard it hit the floor behind him, turning he saw the small shadow run into the foyer, then stop.

He leaned his head, staring.  Only one line came across his mind.  What the fuck?  As he thought it, he rolled his eyes, how cliché the thought.  He shook his head, thinking he was acting as if he was standing in his own horror tale.  It was a storm, he was drinking, and he had either rats or cats.  It was time he took over this situation.  He felt his right shoulder; he could see blood soak his shirt in the firelight.

Another scamper, this one ran and darted between his legs, slashing his calf as it did so.  It almost appeared as if it was running on two legs, not like a cat, but the slice felt much like that of a cat’s scratch.  Son of a bitch, what in the hell is this?  The little unseen creature skidded to a stop on the wood floor in the foyer, and then ran to the stairs.  He blinked as crimson eyes winked at him, and then the hellcat took off up the steps.

“Okay, you little fuckers,” he said.  A shotgun and a flashlight where in his bedroom, somewhat packed, but accessible, so if these critters wanted a fight, well a fight it would be.  He quickly walked out of the sitting room into the foyer.  There was scurrying and scampering noise all over the floor above him. They had to be cats, wild frigging cats.  As he ascended the flight of stairs, the noise moved up to the third level.  They were leading him, but they would need to wait.

He took a left, running now, down the hall.  He felt stupid, childish even, but he could not help it.  It was not fear now it was anger.  As he reached his bedroom, the door slammed shut, nearly hitting him; a hideous crackle of a laugh followed.  His head followed the clicking sound up the wall, then run across the room above him.  “How in the hell?” he uttered.  He did not know, and now he was past the point of caring.

Steven tried the door; the critter locked it, so he slammed his left shoulder into it.  Bad idea as his shoulder throbbed in pain in retaliation.  He back up, charged the door, kicking it with everything he had.  The heavy oak door held, however the door mechanism did not.  The door flung wide open, bouncing on the wall and swing back, nearly hitting him again.

He pushed it aside and ran in, he knew which box to rip open.  Successfully he did so.  Throwing various items out of the box, he hunted for two things.  His hand found one.  It was a giant black metal flashlight.  He pulled it out, twisted the front, the room illuminated from the narrow beam.  He angled it into the box, and grabbed the box of shotgun shells.  He turned, spied the large chest that sat now at the end of his bed.  Placing the shells on the bed he fumbled with keys from his pocket.  Finding the needed key, he turned the lock on the chest.  Flipping it open, the shotgun revealed itself instantly.

Tossing the light on the bed, he opened the box of shells, picked up the shotgun and quickly inserted five shells into the 12-gauge pump action Shotgun.  He shoved five more shells into his pockets.  Satisfied, he flung the shotgun over his right shoulder, wincing slightly, picked up the flashlight and turned to the door of the room.  “Okay you sons of bitches,” he said almost maniacal, “here I come.”

He marched out into the hall, feeling a bit like Rambo, and rounded the stairs to the third floor.  Steve looked up and saw the beady red eyes glaring at him, almost laughing.  He lowered the weapon to his waist and aimed up the flight of stairs.  He swore he heard a high squealing “Oh Shit” before he shot.  He was losing it.  He shook his head holding the gun at his waist, his flashlight in his other hand.  He moved the beam up the stairs, stopping at the shredded top stair.  Nothing, no blood, he missed the bastard.  The clicking and scurry above continued.  He jogged up the stairs and turned.

The light caught a few little creatures; Leprechauns came to mind, vanishing up another set of stairs.  This flight went up the tower, coming out on the Widow’s Walk.  Steve moved to the door, cautiously opened it and quickly scanning the narrow winding staircase with the light.  He saw nothing, but heard the damn critter scamper up just out of the light.  The upper door must have been open, wind and rain struck him in the face as he entered the slender tower stairs.

The storm hit him with all its might as he exited the tower in the center of the mansion.  There was a walk along the roof and around the tower.  A menacing looking wrought iron railing traversed along both sides of what commonly referred to as the Widow’s Walk.  The gothic design held the vertical bars with the devastating pointed tips.  He looked down the two-foot-wide walkway that ran across the top of the roof.  This one ended some seventy feet down at a chimney.  The very chimney that services the fireplace in the sitting room some thirty plus feet below.  The widow’s walk went around the chimney and jutted toward the sea as it ran the rooftop of the north wing of the home.  Built in a U shape, the home had a northern wing and a southern wing; he was currently standing in the middle of it of the U.

He could see something jump up and down on at the end the north wing walk.  The lightning did not offer much light, but it was enough to see his targets.  Steve started his trek toward them.  The weather was fighting every step, the wind was pushing him toward the right railing, and the rain was blinding him.  He was soaked instantly to the flesh.  He lowered his head, lifted his left hand to protect his face and drudged onward.

He was about half way to the chimney when another bolt of lightning struck the lighting rod that rose up from that chimney.  A blue arc ran its way down the metallic shaft, sparked and roared, then flared down the wrought iron railings.  Sparks crackled around him as the charge came by him.  He felt the house pulsating, in and out.  He looked up at his destination.  The chimney itself was moving, as if it were breathing, swelling and contracting.  Suddenly, without warning, it stopped and two little imps emerged with a pop at the end of the widow’s walk on the ell.

Now, what the fuck seemed very appropriate.  He looked back from where he came and then peered out at the south wing on the other side of the mansion.  Two imps jumped gleefully there now also.  He shivered a combination of the cold harsh rain and witnessing something that just is not real.  Was he going insane?  He only had one full glass of rum and cola.  He was not drunk, but he was insane, standing here, fighting God knows what.  His shotgun suddenly felt useless.  No, it was time to retreat.  He looked down at the front of the house; his car sat there, safe.

Steven turned and faced the square tower that he had previously emerged.  Two imps, what else should he call them, were standing there, glaring and hissing at him.  He took a couple of steps toward them and fired the weapon.  Black ichor, goo, and guts flew everywhere as the blast erupted them both.  Three shots then empty he reminded himself as he continued to move to the tower.

Suddenly, four more rounded the tower and charged toward him.  Again, the retort of the blast echoed out over the sound of the sea and storm.  The first two exploded instantly, splattering the other two behind them.  Steve pumped the weapon again and pulled the trigger as they moved closer.  The effect was the same, ichor, guts, and goo.  He laughed aloud and screamed, “Take that you mothers.”

He stepped forward, then something pulled his leg out from under him and he fell face-first onto the wooden walk.  The shotgun slid to the tower door.  Steve rolled himself over and reached for his ankle, something tugged at it.  He found that a steel cable wrapped tightly around it, much as a lasso used to catch cattle.  He tried to loosen it, but something pulled it tight.  He followed it back to the chimney.  Several imps giggled and snickered as they held the line that ended at the lightning rod.

Steven tried to back away, but the little vile sons of bitches were very frigging strong and the pulled the cable taut and he cried out as it tore through his flesh.  He turned, looking back; two more had appeared where he decimated the other six.  One held the shotgun, looking at it curiously, the other was growling at him, moving closer.  That one did not worry him; the weapon wielding one did however.  The creature pointed the shotgun toward him and his friend, his long skinny fingers flinching around the trigger.  Steve watched closely, and then as the shot rang out, he lifted himself up and over the railing.

The second little creature burst into pieces and the other easily flung off the rooftop with an ear-piercing scream from the recoil.  Steve was sliding down the roof, pivoting around the steel cable.  He nearly made it to the edge of the slate roof when the imps managed to catch hold of the cable.  He was now in the crease, between two of the angled rooftops where the wing and the main roof met.  His head dangled next to the gutter, the water rushing by at a high rate of speed.

He reached out and grabbed both sides of the roof lip with each hand.  He bent his free leg under him.  Then with both arms and one leg, he pushed off the roof, pulling at the steel cable with the other.  His plan worked, but what did it accomplish, for now he was hanging upside down like the hanged man in those tarot cards, thirty feet in the air.  Luckily, for him however, this is when the lightning decided to strike again.

The electricity acted much as it did before, ran down the railing, where the steel cable had crossed it, down the gutters and into the ground.  There was no path to ground through him.  “Yes,” he yelled, “Beat that you stupid. . .”

The house roared again, yes it was the fucking house.  He sensed that this thing wanted him, for some reason, what he did not know.  It groaned and shifted ever slow slightly, it desired him, and it needed him.  Suddenly pain tore through is free calf, and it was yanked back toward the roof.

He looked up to see that one of those devious things made its way to him and shoved a ground rod through is leg.  The rod held another steel cable, which was now pulling him up.  Steve cried out in pain as the cable on his left leg dug into the shredded flesh around his ankle and the rod, which had a barbed tip, pulled tightly at his calf muscle.  It felt as if they were tearing off his leg as it hit the gutter at the rooftop.  He was crying now, nearly passing out from pain.  He doubled over, reaching his hands up to the gutter; he needed to help get himself over it.  Those vile creatures kept tugging and tearing, the pain was intolerable.  Steve’s hands managed to catch hold and he somehow assisted the imps in their devilish task.  He could now see that the other cable stretched to the far chimney on the other side of the tower.  It too ended at the other lightning rod.

As he laid there, almost in defeat, two more creatures bounced with ease to him, each carrying steel cables.  Where the fuck did they get those?  Why did he care now?  The ugly little creatures now lined the rooftop walkway, about fifteen or so, all hopping up and down like depraved bobble-heads.  He almost laughed at the very thought.  Then both imps looped the cable around his arms and pulled it tight, just like the one that held his left foot.  Once done, they took off down the side of the roof.

They each headed for the Widow’s Walk that ended at the extensions, overlooking the sea.  As they reached their respective destinations, they yanked the cable tight, pulling his arms out with a jerk.  As those two accomplished that, the others maneuvered the cables that held his legs, wrenching his legs apart.  They pulled and played with the cables amidst the storm until he hung over the roof, each appendage pointing to a corner of the Widow’s Walk.

There was no way out of his, he knew he was going to die, but for what reason.  Was his immortal soul about to be stolen by some demonic or devilish force that lived in the manor?  If that was the case, then he would never see his lovely wife again, he would be lost and she would be waiting for an eternity.  That could not happen; he would not loose his soul hanging here off some Widow’s Walk.  No, he wanted to be with her more than anything.

With strength that came from deep in his soul, he drew hard on his right leg, bending toward him, pulling taut on the cable.  The barbed tip of the rod cut deep into his tissue, tearing as he twisted and jerked his leg.  It was all he could do to remain conscious, but as he worked his leg, he began to bend his right wrist around the cable that held it.  He pulled, bent, and contorted each appendage; pain pulsated constantly through out his body.  The yard below was becoming blood red as he slowly freed himself.

He heard the imps shriek as his leg fell free of its line.  It dropped awkwardly, dangling beneath him.  It would never work right again, he knew that, and he knew it would never have too.  Finally he heard and felt the tell tale signs of the bones in his right wrist breaking.  Steve cried out as loud as he could as his hand went limp and the cable sheared off his fingers as the weight of his body pulled him downward.

Lightning struck the rods on the chimneys as he swung backward and down toward the manor.  He let his head fall limp as he watched a bay window grow closer as he plunged toward it.  The blue crackling bolt of electricity was racing his way, down the cables; it was going to be close.  Steve closed his eyes as he smashed through the glass barrier, the sharp edges piercing his body, he felt no pain, and it was over.  Did he win?

He found himself standing on the Widow’s Walk, staring at the imps, jumping angrily.  Flames shot forth from chimneys as the house roared at the loss.  He felt a touch on his shoulder so he turned. 

Carol was standing there, more beautiful than she had ever been.  She smiled and held out her hand.  He won, he beat this demon, he was happy.  All he felt now was love and comfort.  He was home.  He moved to the edge of the widow’s walk and looked down at his body.

His body was no longer hanging there; it was lying on the ground.  However, it was not still, as it should be, it was moving.  His body removed its bonds that had previously constrained him.  The damaged parts were healing, regenerating as he stood there watching.  Then it turned and looked up at him with a grin.  What, he won, didn’t he?

Red lightning flashed, the sky now was a dark crimson hue.  Carol screamed, he turned to her, and then stepped back.  Cancerous growths plagued her pale skin, vile ichor oozed forth from the sores.  Then he realized that this was not her spirit, but a distorted twisted vision of her that this place created.  He turned back and looked down, the yard, his stolen body; the house was fading, as if he was standing in a doorway then suddenly pulled backward away from it.  He cried out as the cacophony of Hell played around him.