Fiction Friday: [Galloway House Pt. 3]

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[If you need to catch up on previous installments of Galloway House, you can click here to read Part One or here to read Part Two]

Kate Winstead’s shoulders rubbed against the intricately carved wooden door as she tried to steady her breathing. It wasn’t just the ominous weather or the flash of lightning that had struck too closely as she exited the car that ignited the booming in her chest. She couldn’t quite shake the creepy stares of the locals as she drove into town. The way they stood almost catatonic, every eye piercing through the comfort and security of her tinted windows, sent an uneasiness creeping over her as wholly as the approaching clouds darkened the sky.

As she listened to the rain pattering against the roof outside, and the house sighing and groaning like a bored, petulant child inside, Kate regretted having to make the trip alone. Her husband had offered to accompany her, but she convinced him it would be best not to use up any more sick days. The truth was that he wasn’t a Galloway. Allowing him to come would only open the door to questions she couldn’t answer.

 A mechanical buzzing drew her attention and she followed it to one of the many automatic light timers spread throughout the house. With each passing second, the cloud cover dipped the sky into deeper shades of gray. The house would be cloaked in darkness before the timers had a chance to do their job. Clicking on the lights, Kate took in the sheet-covered furnishings and was surprised at how much she remembered even though she hadn’t been within Townsley’s borders since she was five.  

She walked over to the rocking chair in the sitting room and pulled the sheet, sending sparkles of dust into the air. Her eyes drifted across the ivy leaves carved into its curved back and traveling down along the arms. A burgundy pillow with an elaborately crossstitched “G” was still perched on the seat. Kate’s mind flooded with memories of sitting on her grandmother’s lap, listening to tales about their family. A memory that would make most nostalgic made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle.

Kate questioned again whether she should have come. Whether any of this was even necessary. What if she was acting on the whim of a family tradition born from unwell minds? On tales passed down and told so often they morphed into an undisputable truth? With every mile traveled to Townsley, the more she had believed that to be the case. But what if she was wrong? The consequences were too great to find out, so it wasn’t a chance she could take. She hadn't wanted the responsibility, but Kate was the last living Galloway and she had a job to do.

READ PART 4 HERE.

Fiction Friday: [Consumed]

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It didn’t come softly like a whisper. It announced itself with a startling bang meant to disarm and chase away all signs of rationale and sensibility, replacing each with an unrelenting tremble at the very core of who I was.

I now understood that nightmares existed solely to soften the blow. A baby step to the big show so that when it was on my doorstep, it wouldn’t create such a bounding bloat of fear that my heart would forget its purpose.

Hands trembled. Tears puddled. Heart pounded in a soup of disbelief and terror. But it was the feet that betrayed me most of all. Planted firmly in place, concreted to their forever spot. The spot where I would cease to exist, where I would morph into the very thing that tore a streak of heat through my gut.

And there would be no mercy.

The tearing. The cutting. The ripping.

Each flick and punch delivered so solidly I gasped for air and closed my eyes. In the darkness, pain and panic unified and foretold of the true torture to come. I fought hard to find comfort in my memories for as long as I could. I thought of sunlight dancing on water, of snow covered park benches, and of the rich colors of fall. I thought of smiling faces, of warm hugs, and of soft kisses.

Knowing I would never recognize the value of love anymore was the cruelest blow of them all. The weight of sorrow from the realization was too much to bear and my memories flickered. As the darkness oozed into the last vestige of who I was, I was almost grateful.

Fiction Friday: [Awake]

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I woke up this morning, but no one else did.

The first hour was the toughest because, despite the rise and fall of their chests, I worried that my family was dead. No matter how hard I shook them or screamed their names, neither my parents nor my little brother would wake. I held my mom’s hand and cried for a while.

After gathering some courage, I sprinted downstairs and right out the front door. Running into the middle of the street, I stretched my neck and strained my ears for signs of anyone…anything. I cracked the silence as I ran, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“Hello? Is anyone out here? Anyone?”

All that greeted me was a disheartening vacuum of nothingness. There weren’t even birds singing or leaves rustling. Even the wind had left me all alone.

My voice grew hoarse and I was blocks away from home, barefoot and in my pajamas. I needed to get back. I plodded toward home, dreading the emptiness that would meet me there.

Reaching my block, I stopped mid-stride. It had been faint, but I was sure I’d heard it. It was a struggle to hear anything over the rhythmic pulsing in my ears, but after a moment I convinced myself that it had just been my imagination and continued on.

Just as I was shutting the door, I heard it again. Echoey and distant, it gently pierced its way through the silence. I raced back out into the street, turning in circles, eager to find whoever it was. Then, I heard it again, much clearer this time.

Icy fingers of fear crept up my spine. I grew weak from the excitement draining so quickly and dizzy under the weight of what I’d heard.

My own voice.

“Hello? Is anyone out here? Anyone?”

Fiction Friday: [A Change of Scenery]

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[This week's Fiction Friday is my submission for Scene Stealers #21. Scene Stealers is a fun writing prompt from Write to Done where they provide the first two--or in this case three--sentences and limit your word count to 350. Unfortunately this time I blew past the word limit. Enjoy!]

 

She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. 

Sallie’s fingers froze over the keyboard. She held her breath and listened intently in hopes of dissipating the fear. As the sound of her heart pounded in her ears, she really started to regret leaving the city.

Go to the country, her agent suggested, get a change of scenery.

A sense of dread, lurking just below the surface, had struck her from the moment she arrived. She’d attributed it to her overblown imagination and gone for a walk, hoping to combat her anxiety. Strolling along the quiet dirt road, she was drawn in by the hypnotic flow of the rolling hills and the graceful beauty of the grazing horses. In her trance-like state, she felt a sense of calm wash over her.

Then she came upon the sign. Spotted with rust and partly covered by vines, it should have been easy to miss, but she’d seen it, clear as day.

Friendship Cemetery 1773

Suddenly, she was standing on an overgrown path with no recollection of how she’d gotten there. At her feet, weeds snaked their way through cracked pieces of stone. In front of her, a short, stone stacked wall surrounded long forgotten tombstones. Her mind told her to run, but her body had other ideas.

The pebbles crunched beneath her feet—screaming through the quiet—as she breached the entrance to the cemetery. Her panic growing with each step. Her desperation to turn around growing even faster.

She finally stopped in front of an arched tombstone that had broken in two. It was weathered, but she could just make out the inscription across the bottom piece: April 1778 – Dec 1862. Her breathing grew shallow as she looked down and found her toes touching the top half that lay face down, on the ground. Reaching out to pick it up, her mind screamed in protest. She read the inscription and her blood ran cold. Her hands shook as the stone slipped through her fingers, breaking in two as it hit the ground.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The banging brought her back and she jumped at the sound.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It was coming from beneath her feet. It was coming from the grave.

She scrambled out of the cemetery, jumping over the wall. Too afraid to look back at the broken tombstone that lay on a bed of dead leaves. The tombstone that bore the name Sallie Fleming.

Her name.

Now, sitting at her laptop in the quaint little farmhouse, Sallie clasped her hands over her mouth to hold in a blood curdling scream. She could taste the saltiness of the tears that seeped their way to her palms. Closing her eyes, the sound that had followed the creaking felt even closer.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

As she opened her eyes, a scream ripped from her throat right before her heart stopped.