Stories I Never Finished

In My Eyes

ONE

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There was nothing like the chilled embrace of nightfall, an isolation so strong it poured blackness through the walls of solemn homes; entrapping those who linger within four towering structures tied together by a roof whose purpose can only be to hold the sky up.
Twinkling stars shone their death, a moon valiantly casting its gaze across the world as the land became more awake and alive than any sunshine day could.

For Calum, night time was a disaster he wished would stop coming.

As he sat on his living room couch, slouched over in a hunch with one elbow on his thigh and a hand to his forehead—propping up a heavy skull while tired eyes remained closed and a cold hand refused to let go of a chilled whiskey glass half empty on the table—Calum couldn't get the whispers to leave his mind.

It was all he could hear, whispering walls and creaking floors; an attic crawling with monsters whose long spindly limbs would skitter across the rickety floorboards late at night.
But... it wasn't the monsters he feared, nor the vicious beings who would wander slowly by his windows—peering deep through hazy glass in the hopes he would leave his curtains open one night. No, the worst of it all was nothing more than a small child.

Their face, so pale and glassy like a porcelain doll rest upon a fine China plate, would be filled with fright; soft green eyes glistening with terror of the blackened skies where monsters swam like whales in the ocean.
Long blond hair would flow past her shoulders like vines falling upon a wire fence, and her dress would glow a shade of ghostly white.

She was a gentle soul, his daughter, his family, his only reason to stay within the wicked old house on a quiet suburban street, and as he lifted his glass to his lips he could hear her quiet footsteps shuffle down the hallway toward his waiting figure in the only alive room.

"Daddy...?" Her voice was shy, scared to impede on Calum's existence as she hovered by the doorway; shadows dancing behind her.

Calum sighed, a heavy weighted sound, as he pushed brown curls from his face and sat up slightly; enough to tilt his head back and down the remaining burn of liquor he had.

"...the monster's in my room again."

Glass thudded against the wooden coffee table, set back down empty as Calum took a moment to compose himself. He refused to glance toward his child, having made such a mistake before—he wouldn't do it again.

"Go to sleep, Ana." He stared at the blank television screen set in the wall, seeing nothing but his blurred reflection shinning back through the darkness.

"But the monster-?"

"Isn't real." He interjected, cutting the young child off before she could continue.

There was nothing more, silence filled the house—only the odd creak of wind or rustle of trees could be heard as Ana disappeared to her room once more; abandoning Calum who finally felt free to breathe once more.

The monster was real. It had been real, vicious, cruel, unholy and inhuman. And it was his fault.

Ana didn't deserve the evil of their wicked house, but now Calum couldn't build enough strength to leave. He could barely leave its wooden enclosure, trapped within walls that would ooze black at midnight.

Sometimes he would open the front door, greeted by two specific police officers who would be concerned for his well-being; assigned to him as though he had become some kind of damaged puppet to master.

Every time it would be the same, mumbled mutterings joined by slow nods of his head, and they could do nothing but accept it; unable to step foot into his home, unable to help.