Eleanor & other stories

The People within the Walls: Part II

Dinner with my aunt and uncle was a stiff event and I soon after retired to my very lonely wing of the mansion. Margaret had called me "Darling!" for wearing the outstandingly old fashioned yet very expensive pastel dress that she had bought me. After that I had introduced the thought of an electrical conduction to the outer world, which had been immediately categorized as very unnecessary by my uncle. Superfluously, this question of mine had ended in a general outrage of both on how dependent young people nowadays were on technology, on how appalling music had gotten and that it would surely do me some good to be deprived from both.

I was already lying in bed – still pondering on my unhappiness – when it started to rain and the little sad drops running down the windows of my bed chamber lulled me into some horrific dreams from which I awoke only a few hours later; screaming and bathed in my own sweat. Fleeing from this place of terror, which the soft cushions and silken blankets had become, I tucked myself into a new gown and left my apartments for a short walk around the silent corridors.

To my great horror I had to observe that after all the corridors were not at all as silent as I had imagined them to be. There was a shrieking noise. A cry of inhuman origin. A scream of death, if I had to give it a name. And then – as I followed the howling out of curiosity and a frightful emotion which I could not determine – I turned another corner and in the twilight of the moon I found a body on the floor; twisting in some black pulsing fluid. Against all human instincts I was drawn closer by a new sens of voyeuristic disgust and as I knelled in front of the squirming body I finally identified it as the little bulldog. Its blood ran red and bittersweet like a cherry gone bad from a pulsing wound, opening my eyes to its guts. Thick and scarlet the horror of death dripped from my fingers as I tried to hold the wound close. Every drop drew a new beautiful rose on the carpet beneath us. There was nothing I could do.

Then there came footsteps and only as I froze in terror I noticed my mouth had been wide open; filled with screams of horror. A figure manifested in the shadows of the corridor in front of me. Drawn nearer and nearer by my own treacherous noises. Was this the end coming? So soon? So senseless? I begged for dignity and a swift end to my sad existence.

My aunt was not the same after having heard from the decay of her beloved dog. She grew frenetic and even more – if possible – snappish then she had been at our first encounter. Rachel, the female staff, had told her the sad news at the breakfast table, which had turned out to be a rather bad decision as Margaret had started tearing up immediately. It was Rachel, too, who had found me in the middle of the night, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Calling someone from the nearest animal burial turned out to be rather difficult as the thunder and storm had torn the cable of the emergency telephone – which apparently had existed – into pieces. As a result Thomas, the cook, was ordered to dig a whole six feet deep next to his herb garden, which invited my aunt to even louder lamentations. It got so bad, that her husband finally withdrew from our small society muttering how he had never liked that little dirty beast.

Solving the mystery of the brutal death seemed of no urgent importance to anyone which further rose my superstition and feeling of uneasiness in the company of all these people, who were strangers to me. While my aunt and uncle were in apparent denial of the situation, the staff seemed to feel in no way responsible to further investigate on other peoples problems. It seemed as if all four of them tried to wish the murder away by sheer neglect. How I desired having called the gentle taxi driver earlier. From a handsome young fellow he had turned into my only hope for safety and escape.

The mansion itself had grown an even more horrid place than it had been before. Phantasms seemed to haunt me. Ghostly anomalies of light and shadow formed images of brutal murderers in my mind. Sometimes I thought I saw shadows walking across the walls of the long and dusty corridors; accompanied by hasty footsteps. It was as if I saw reflections of objects, that were not entirely there. The sublime atmosphere of the estate had transformed itself into a haunting terror and the wild fantasies which illustrated themselves in my mind forbade me to find even the slightest peace. I tended to withdraw to my chamber early before nightfall so as not to walk alone in darkness.

By that time my dear record player was coated with a thin layer of dust. Sometimes – when the anxiety seemed unbearable – I sat next to it and cried in silence and begged fate for salvation from this mental trip of pursuit.

It was not many days later when I shrieked awake from a nightmare. I had heard a cry of horror and death. In truth I had never really stopped to hear the one of the little bulldog and over time it had grown to an even more distressing and painful scream. However, as my mind withdrew from my haunted dreamland, I was sure this particular cry had come from the real world. Hastily I stood up and went to the door of my reception room to open it and be secured by the empty corridor on the other side, which I would surely find. But then I heard the scream again – louder this time – and a vibrating pound on the door as if an object of quite some size had fallen against it. The door handle moved and as the wooden door itself opened a person fell into the room and into my arms.

"Run. You must run. They are in the walls. You must watch out for the walls.", they rattled and blood splattered with every breath on my delicate white nightgown. It was my dear aunt, whom I held in my arms. The blood, which came from a marvelous wound, that parted her throat into two loose and unnatural halves, soaked my dress in the red color of her vitality, which she lost more and more with every word.

"It is too late for all of us.", she whispered with the glittering of atrocious pain in her eyes. And with a low moaning cry she fell to the floor and moved no more.

I cried because I had left her lying on the dusty carpet of my reception room. I cried because my throat was sore and hurting from all the screaming I had done. I cried because I ran and ran and could not find a door out of this misery. I was trapped in a labyrinth of death and pursuit and I did not even know what or whom I was fleeing from.

Finally I reached the dining room. From her I would be able to relocate. From here I could find the exit and run through the woods in my bleeding dress as long as I had to. As long as I would be able to. From here I saw my uncle lying on the floor, a knife in his heart, Thomas sitting on his chest. As the cook saw me his eyes filled up with a sort of barbaric luster and he withdrew his cooking utensil from the dead flesh.

I understood now, who the people within the walls were. The servants obliged to use the service corridors.

I ran. And as I ran I heard a second set of feet following mine. Coming closer, running faster. And then there was a ginormous crash and cries of war and rage. As I turned back I saw the young taxi driver coming forth from a secret door that had been hidden behind a tapestry in the wall. Thomas had lost his knife and my nameless savior fought him with his bare fists. Finally the cook fell to the ground and did not stand up again. A sigh of relive escaped my throat. He had come for me after all. My radio silence had not reassured him of my safety but made him even more apprehensive. However, the sense of ease stayed not much longer.

"No! What did you do!", high screams pierced through the air, which was filled with fear and unrest. Rachel burst into the corridor from the same secret entrance that my dear gentleman had used not so much earlier. With waling cries of pain and despair she sank down to the floor and hugged the lifeless body of her fellow staff as if she was not sure whether she wanted to forcefully wake or lovingly caress him.

"This was supposed to be our place. You were supposed to be dead. Not him. Never him. Oh, what did you do! You should have left when you saw the warning of the dead dog. Why didn't you? Why oh why!", and on she went.

Slowly and delicately the young taxi driver took me by the hand and drew me backwards. Away from this scenery of murder and lost love.

The taxi driver took me home with him. His name was Allan. We fell in love and married way to early, but we were happy. Sometimes the dead from my past haunted me in my dreams and my waking hours and when that happened Allan soothed my spirits and embraced my body and I never felt alone anymore. After a few month we went back to the estate, which was abandoned by then and soled it. With the money I founded a record label.