Tower of Grief Read online



  Tower of Grief

  A horror story

  by K. Massari

  Copyright © 2014 Karen Massari

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Tower of Grief

  The house is alone now. A heavy rain is falling, drumming on its roof, on its meandering pathways through the garden, which snake through the lawn like veins on the insides of your arms. The house has a heart, a beat, and most of all, a mind of its own.

  Satisfied, it has ousted its inhabitants once more. Restless, they have fled, unsure why they often cannot sleep, have strange and unsettling dreams, and why - in the middle of the night - hands touch them, lips lick them, and needs and urges are taken care of, desires they didn't even know they had.

  At the breakfast table, the people who live in the house often cannot make eye contact. They wonder what really happened. They plan vacations as often as they can, because they do not want to move, not again. But they do not want to stay at the house more than they have to.

  Wisps of fog rise from the valley behind the cherry trees. It rains even harder. A light goes on in the upstairs bedroom. A mirror cracks as if smashed. A ball rolls from what was once a nursery, and bounces down the mold-ridden staircase.

  No one can live here. It is a toxic place. The air itself cannot tolerate sharing space with those who live. Its evil is pervasive still; jealous, it reaches out to the people who have moved in. In their vacation hours, at the pool, the boy starts choking. He retches, the mother rushes to him. His face turns red, he cannot breathe. The father comes careening out of the pool towards them, hitting the son on the back, he unlocks the hold the evil has.

  The boy is free once more. But in his mind's eye, he sees the house, the curtains pulled back, the front door wide open: it is laughing.

  Another family is in Disneyland, feasting on fries and ice cream, screaming in the water slide and whirling in magic cups. They are strong even after nightmares. They have chosen to forget. Moving often out of force of habit, the house cannot ensnare them to its full delight.

  The mother, abused, knows abuse. She does not flinch at the nocturnal invasions of her body's privacy. Denial has been her philosophy since early on. And her husband is a sociopath, feelings are not his thing. Their three children are highly intelligent and easily bored; their minds race to new attractions, not dwelling on the here and now.

  But the house waits and broods. As the raindrops dwindle and the chilling storm passes, it sits on its foundation, stretching its thoughts to its human foundlings, wherever they may be.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I know the house. I lived there long ago. I know its desires, its nocturnal appetites. Today, I have a cherished little snack for it. A woman, on the verge of death, has requested my help. She knows me, knows how cold and harsh I can be. A friend's mother, she has known me for many years.

  "What if there is something else?" I ask her on that fateful day (she has asked me to help her die).

  "What do you mean?"

  She forms the sentence slowly, her eyes round with wonder.

  "Well, there is life - here we are, living and breathing. Then, there is death, our bodies begin to decay. What if there is ... an alternative?"

  She laughs. "Frozen and sleeping?"

  "Perhaps. That's not what I mean."

  A light goes on in the house. Upstairs, in preparation.

  The boy is back in the pool; the mother sits close, agitatedly leafing a magazine. She glances in his direction often, pondering the distance between them and repeating in her mind's eye moves she can make to get to him as fast as possible. Dwelling a little on the possibility he might choke on his vomit.

  The family in Disneyland is back at the hotel, the children have all taken a shower, but are nowhere near ready for bed. The mother has locked herself in the bathroom, carving her thighs. The father, meanwhile, has gotten into his car to drive off. Just to put a little distance in between himself and his family.

  So the house is not distracted. It is ready for the old woman named Ethel. As I park in front of the garage, she looks at me one more time.

  "What?" I ask.

  "This is crazy," she says, baiting me for details, searching for signs I am not to be trusted.

  "Take a look," I suggest.

  "You can always say no."

  "Promise?"

  "Yes. If you don't like it, just say so."

  "And you will help me anyway?"

  Her eyes are filled with pain, emotional as well as physical pain. She can't take much more much longer. I open the door on my side. She coughs. The house is waiting.

  "How beautiful," she coos, as she takes in the cherry trees and the expansive lawns.

  "My, my," she says approvingly.

  "How rich were these people?"

  "He was one of the first millionaires."

  "He built the house in 1910."

  Ethel stops and inhales with difficulty. Her arms are pale, and her flesh dangles off them with a scary looseness. The house is silent. I smirk. The sun, setting in a brilliant orange, reminds me of all the years I believed in a new day, I believed there was still time.

  Taking graceful steps, Ethel has reached the back door. Looking up, she sees it. Nervous about asking, I help her along.

  "The Tower."

  "I was wondering."

  "It's unusual."

  "I'll say," Ethel waves a hand.

  "I've never seen anything like it in my entire life."

  "No, you haven't," I state quite simply.

  "It's one of a kind."

  The boy at the pool turns blue and suffers violent spasms. His mother hits him on the back, and screams HELP hysterically. In Disneyland, at the hotel, the family members twitch and turn and eventually tumble out of bed, knocking their heads on the floor, on the bedside tables, on each other's heads. The house pulls the strings tighter. It won't ever let go.

  Ethel is enchanted. This is really good, she thinks. Nevertheless, a brief moment of weakness has her sagging at the knees, and I hold her at the elbow, just in time.

  "I need a glass of water," she says, her voice a strained whisper.

  "Inside," I say, and half carry, half push her forward.

  The back door is never locked. Inside, it is musty and dark; perhaps just the right thing after the glare of a lost sunny day. A single chair stands in the middle of the kitchen, amongst clutter and dust.

  I sit Ethel down, and go for the refrigerator. I pour her a glass of strawberry water. She gulps it down greedily.

  The Tower, I think. How will I get her up into its chamber?

  She looks at me with questioning eyes. Her eyes are the eyes of a young girl, betraying her withered body. She stands. I put my arm around her shoulders and lead her to the stairs. She will need to climb two flights. Slowly. A lot of distracting conversation will do it.

  She bucks. She begins to breathe heavily.

  "I think we should go back to the car."

  "It's special. You will really like it."

  I lean in real close, smoothing back a lost strand of hair, and whisper in her ear:

  "The pain goes away."

  She looks at me doubtfully. But she walks forward, and we are moving again. I feel nothing. I lead her to the first set of stairs, a soft plush pink carpet rolling upwards to a window offsetting trees and sky. It's peaceful, and Ethel is a little more upbeat. She focusses on the window, and takes careful steps.

  That's all I want. That's all the house wants.

  The boy at the pool
side is now pronounced dead. The mother wails and thrashes, she is inconsolable. The father, grief-stricken, vows revenge. He is certain, this was not an accident. He thinks of the house, of the many things that have gone wrong since they moved in, how one appliance after another broke down, how the bills started piling.

  He will tear the damn thing down single-handedly.

  Ethel is taking the stairs with grace and ease. I do not doubt the house is helping her in some mysterious way. We are up and about to mount another flight. She touches my cheek with her old, withered hand.

  "Look at me," she pleads.

  I comply. Outside the branches of the trees are swaying softly in the wind. They reveal stars, as it is dark now, and from somewhere music plays, a lover's ballad.

  "Tell me one more time," asks Ethel.

  "Is it safe and is it real?"

  "The Tower?"

  "Yes!"

  "Ethel, I swear to you, I am telling the truth. You will be safe there, your pain will go away. Trust me."

  She nods grimly, tears of gratitude in her eyes. This is her only chance, she will try to take it. Again, we ascend, the soft plush pink carpet a comfort along the way.

  Finally, the door to the Tower. It is painted white, with a golden door knob. I rustle with keys, because in stark contrast to every other