In This House

 

It was the wind outside which finally roused her. If not for the storm, cascading sidewards in howling waves, she’d have remained in slumber. Perhaps she’d never have awakened. 

She lay in the corner of the room, curled awkwardly against the wall. 

 

Her arm was not hers. It had been trapped under the weight of her withering body, and was numb from her fingers to her elbow. She shook it around clumsily, forcing the blood to sift it’s way back along her veins. As a slow, static tingling began to creep it’s way along her forearm, her eyes darted wildly around the room. It was empty. Featureless. In the scarce light cast from underneath the door, she saw nothing but a splintered, empty floor and peeling walls. There was no window. 

 

She placed her phantom hand on the cold wood and forced herself to her feet. Now, she found, her legs were not hers and worked only on some basic instinct. As if floating, she made her way to the door which leaked a yellow light from it’s base. 

 

Placing her hand on the metal knob, she hadn’t much faith in the door being unlocked. She’d seen enough horror movies, watched enough grisly documentaries to know that it wasn’t going to be that straightforward. For a moment, she considered not even trying the door. She stood there ardously, waving left and right on those legs that were apparently her own. 

 

Panic was the real killer. She knew that. If she kicked and punched and elbowed the door and squealed like a bat from hell, her captor surely wouldn’t appreciate it. Plus, where was the sense in screaming when the wind outside shook the house to it’s foundations?

With that in mind, she gripped the doorknob, her knuckles turning white, and slowly turned it to the left. 

 

(surprise surprise)

 

When the door didn’t move, she felt a scream rise within her. Her throat swelled and her pulse drummed in her head like some frantic, caged animal. But somehow, the scream died there, right on the tip of her tongue, as if extinguished by her own prior logic — making a fuss will just make this worse.

 

Releasing her grip on the door, she retreated back to the corner from which she rose.

 

I’d do this, she’d have announced to her husband, when they were cuddled on their sofa on a Friday night watching their fifth-straight episode of a true crime documentary. 

Why’d they do that? 

I’d have done this, I’d have done that.

 How stupid are these people?

 Her husband would roll his eyes. 

 

(Well, here’s my fucking chance to put my ingenius logic to the test)

 

She slumped down, resigned back to her position which she had been in for… how long?

What was the last thing she remembered, even? Her memory had seemed to be erased, for the most part — at least from the prior days. That meant one of two things: she’d been drugged, or she’d been hit hard on the head. Hard. 

In the dimness, she searched along her inner elbow for track marks or raises in her skin. There was no immediate signs. That was good. There was no pain or swelling either, so unless this captor was a clinical bloodworker, it was safe to rule out any sedatives. 

She raised her hand behind her head, searching gently with her fingers, sifting through her hair. Nothing. No raises, no obvious signs of a cricket bat cracking on her skull. 

 

(there is gas. He could have gassed you. Good ol’ 80’s style chloroform-on-a-rag, even. But that doesn’t tend to wipe out memory).

 

He. She caught herself thinking. It’s always a He. 

 

She placed her head on the hardwood planks, curling into a fetal position. Outside, the wind had reached a crescendo, turning from a droning howl to an outright shriek. Within it’s symphony of powerful gusts, she could hear the wailing of trees as they strained to stay upright. In her mind, she could picture them, hundred-foot pines bending like toothpicks, their foliage tossing wildly, helplessly. 

 

She’d seen this play out before. She’d heard the tales. Watched the shows. And now, if she played her cards right, she’d live to own the T-Shirt — Keep Calm and Do What He Says.

She wrapped her arms around her torso, and closed her eyes. The wind, which was whistling along the gutters, sang her to sleep. 

 

*

 

It was not the wind which roused her now.

It was a thunk of glass. 

She shot up onto her feet. Her heart was a triphammer in her chest. A million coloured specks danced in her vision, she rose too quick. Placing her hand on the wall, she dipped her head and waited for her body to adjust.

When her vision cleared, she looked around the room. Her heart froze.

The door across the room was gone. 

In it’s place stood a small window in the wall. Ragged curtains hung across it.

She approached the window, the wooden planks creaking under her bare feet. 

Thunk.

She reached her hand forward and grabbed one of the haggard, torn curtains.

Thunk.

Slowly, her hand trembling, she drew the material back and revealed the glass.

A horse stood outside, standing adjacent to the window. It’s silky black fleece was mere inches away from the glass, and barely visible in the midnight darkness. It faced away from her, idly gazing into the treeline. The wind, as if spat from the bowels of the forest, hurled itself towards the house again, throwing the horse awkwardly against the glass.

Thunk.

The horse stumbled back a few inches, and returned it’s gaze towards the forest, totally oblivious to her presence on the other side of the window. 

On instinct, she lifted her elbow, cocked it behind her, and threw it against the glass. A myriad of cracks shot across the pane. The horse lept sidewards, away from the window, tossing it’s head frantically. It’s eyes rolled around in it’s head, and it kicked onto it’s hind legs.

She rose her elbow again, locking her eyes on the epicentre of fractures in the sheet of glass. But before she was able to throw herself towards it, the blood drained from her head again. Those stars, that infinite cosmos of galaxies and colours and shapes, blinded her vision, and she fell back unconscious onto the floor.

Thunk.