Rebel Fear

Rebel Fear

The cold chases me down the shadowy hallway. Outside, I hear brakes screech in the driveway. My heart races as a tremendous bang resounds. Someone, or something, has clambered in through the front door. I continue running, the loose dress I wear reveals a single bare shoulder. The footfalls of my bare feet vaguely traceable.

My mind is set on disappearing from a hell-bent, living, breathing fury that can never be satisfied. A vespertine craving for blood. . . mine. Suddenly, I stop. I am face to face with the full moon. The dial above the grandfather clock informs me of the prolonged hunting phase. There is a secret panel I access behind it. Pulling on a retractable ladder, I convey myself to a hidden wooden alcove a floor above. I shove the ladder back into place, replacing the solid panel that conceals my presence. The alcove upstairs is masked behind an unmoving, massive bookcase. I have just entered it by the only means possible. Perhaps, the tick tock, tocking of the clock will drown out the pound, pound, pounding of my heart.

The creature rages at me, “I know you can hear me. It’s best you give up now.’ It screams ‘now” like an injured howl. The lack in name calling reveals how much he loathes me. I find it strange that the cover of darkness acts as a conduit to our different means of existence. The hunter and the guard, the punisher and the peacekeeper, the guilty and the innocent. In my darkened place, I attempt to disarm my fear, fight it, control it, but I soon discover only exhaustion can dull its power.

This house isn’t mine, and yet, I live here. All I own are the clothes in my bureau and my name, Aurora. I am the Werners housekeeper/cook. I lucked into the position almost a year ago when I escaped my former Master. I dare not speak his name. I was his devoted and hard-working domestic from age sixteen. Now twenty-seven, the scars on my body are evidence of a damaged soul. I continue to hope the memories I carry from that period will, in time, all be forgotten. 

I had a wicked, heartless, and undignified Master, so I ran. For two days my escape bore me through hollows, thickets, creek beds, and all matters of rough terrain. I re-surfaced in the well-maintained yard of an old Victorian house. I looked a mess, but pride was not something I was felt at that moment. I made my way up the porch and knocked. The lady of the house, dressed in a beautiful lavender dress, answered. She took pity on me immediately. I could do nothing but cry in her embrace. I told her every horrible thing I had endured. She begged me stay until her husband arrived. I could hear their hushed discussions in the adjacent room. Within minutes she returned. I was offered the chance to work for them - as long as I chose. This was the beginning of my freedom.

The Werners are on holiday. The house is mine, for now. Never confident of safety, I allow my mind create scenarios and possible outcomes. My former Master would never give up searching for me, terrorizing me, breaking me. Either he, or one of his mongrels are here for me. They won’t leave without me. They will suffer dearly for coming here.

As I begin to drift to sleep, I hear a crashing sound, followed by breaking glass. The bucket of glass shards I had balanced at the top of an open door has landed. Those fragments surely did some damage. If not, their well-being won’t last long. “You’ll pay for that, little girl.” I hear him, lips sneered, rendering the threat. I chill; goosebumps cover me.

My stomach growls. The chimes of the grandfather clock keep track of my confinement. In my pocket is the quietest food I could think of –bread. I eat a few pieces hoping it will hold me.

Next, I detect a moan of pain. Either they found my knife trap or the open electric current. The knife trap I fashioned is similar to a feather spear trap. Someone trips a brake on a swinging pendulum onto which I have strapped with various knives. The knife blades stab the person behind it as it swings from its tether.

The steps are louder, heavier. They’ve gone from being discreet to being severe. My fear has given way to desire - to see them die without mercy, without compassion. I puff up with a bit of pride, being sure to put a hand over my mouth, muffling the giggles. They created my madness and now, it is being used against them. How very sinister.

If the monster makes it to my bedroom, it will be all over. I hear creaks and scraps throughout the house. I’m just not entirely sure where they are coming from. Oh to be the proverbial fly on the wall, watching him, gaging him, cursing him.

The grandfather clock plays its lovely tune, speaking into the void like an ominous crow warning of death and danger. “It’s been two hours! What is taking so long?” I whine in a whisper. My enclosure is wearing on me. I must be patient. Tick tock, tick tock. It makes me think of a bomb escalating to detonation. Tick tock, tick tock, look at the havoc I’ve wrought. I rub my scarred wrists. It is what I do when I get anxious. The monster kept me bound so tightly and for so long, the scars still bound me. . . to a silent underlying hatred.

Stretched across the bottom of the stairs, is a thin, metal piece of trip wire. The wire is attached to a car battery with jumper cables. I have hidden those beneath the stairs, behind a cabinet. Also crossing the foot of the stairs is a water spill - hard to detect against the beige tiled floor. The staircase railing is a thick rope of rod iron designed with curlicues and branches I have heard iron is a good conductor of electricity. It’s a shame I won’t be able to see this play out.

I can sense the weighty presence of darkness around me- it’s in the air I breathe, the sulphuryl burning in my nostrils; the feel of paresthesia in my limbs, the sound of wingbeats and social call of bats. Their rustling and thrumming, their squealing and squawking.

Since I cannot know whether the electric wire performed as it should, I must assume the evil has made its way to the second floor. If any sound at all was made when the person got electrocuted, it was too low and faint to be heard.

The clock chimes again. Why the hell is all this taking so long? I want out, but cannot risk it. My body is rapidly filling with energy. I am afraid I will burst at any moment. Just then, something actually does. I make out the sudden explosion as a single gunshot. Ha! It worked!! The rigged gun worked! A heavy thud occurs. It assures me there has been contact.

Inch by inch, breath by breath, I crawl out of hiding, ever vigilant of any noise, whether self- created or otherwise. It takes me several moments to emerge from the grandfather clock. My palms are sweaty. I look down at trembling hands; one of my fingers is missing. No, it isn’t missing, it is GONE! It reminds me of the evening Master sawed it off, when I forgot to fetch his brandy.

Still barefoot, I heel toe it past shattered glass, blood-stained knives, and the tripped staircase. There, I listen. I don’t know which would be worse, hearing something or not hearing something. The quiet unnerves me. I scold myself, “get your shit together.” It irritates me when I revert to child-like fears. I am brave, just not as brave as I ought.

Climbing the stairs, I spot blood droplets, not many, but enough to bolster my nerve. Again, I pause at the top of the stairs. I listen. I observe. I proceed. Creep, creep, I move. Tick tock, tick tock I hear. Time is quickly moving. It is all too much for my system. What if someone comes knocking? I couldn’t possibly answer. The scenario hasn’t happened so maybe it won’t.

I follow the bloody patches along the second floor, leading to my bedroom. My heartbeat quickens; my breathing intensifies. I land at the point of impact. The tall figure lies face-down. Blood is oozing in all directions. I kneel. There is no movement. I speak to it, “Get up.” Nothing. I remain frozen. So does the body.

Tick tock, tick tock. The clock speaks, “Hurry up,” it seems to say. I struggle to roll the body. At once, I jump, traumatized from seeing him. My old Master. I grab the fire poker from the hearth. One jab, two. Again, nothing.

The emerald green curtain I’ve wrapped around the dead body is too beautiful for the shroud I’ve made of it. It's rich, satiny texture is elegant and enchanting. Wish I could as much for the carcass I'm dragging. I make it to the basement. Here, it is colder. There’s no tick tock, tick tock. I introduce old Master to the Werners. I'm alive. Tick tock, tick tock.