IF THESE WALLS COULD SCREAM
By J.R. Rodriguez
If These Walls Could Scream
by John Rodriguez
© 2011 John (J.R.) Rodriguez. All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without properly crediting John Rodriguez as the sole author and creator of this content. This story is provided to you free or charge and should not be sold in any way, shape or medium, print or digital. It may be reprinted for personal use, but you may not reprint it in an anthology or other media form without first contacting the author.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
If These Walls Could Scream…
Children dare one another to come onto my porch and touch my door. Some people walk by me very fast. Other people avoid me altogether. I am regarded as a monstrosity. I am seen as a thing of fear, loathing, and absolute revulsion though I am mere wood, glass, and metal. I am as seemingly dead as the stones that line my walkway and as unfeeling as the years-old trees in my yard. But I am not. Horrible things have been done within the confines of my rooms. Blood has been spilled upon my floors and splattered on my walls. Screams and moans have echoed within my hallways. Pleas of mercy and shouts of rage have sounded to deaf ears. So here I sit, a testament to cruelty.
Why am I subject to answer for these moments, these hours, of horror and fear? It is not my fault that evil deeds have been committed. I have not been the conspirator of murder and inspirer of madness. Yet, people see me as the terror. They fail to remember the human hands that have slain here. Yes, they speak the killers’ names, but the deeds lie at my doorway. I am the one whose body stays the object of scorn and hate. I am a victim and yet I am the tormentor.
I am empty but I am not vacant. The ghosts of fury and pain walk on my floors. The lost and empty souls of those killed cannot escape my walls. They ask me why I hold them and I cannot tell them. Their voices fall upon ears that do not hear and upon a heart that has never beaten. To them, I am a host of never-ending pain and misery. Damn the living! Damn the dead! For both have me in this state and neither will let go.
Upon the dusty planks of my halls roams the Woman in Black. She cries and searches for the Fair-Haired Child. Her sorrow is never ending. Her heart is dark with despair and hopelessness. She wrings her hands as she searches for that which she knows she’ll never find. The Strangers in Cloaks have taken the Child and put her in my attic walls. They are the arcane group who practiced eldritch rites back when I was still newly born. The Woman foolishly allowed them through my doors and into my well-built wooden heart. She trusted them with that she loved the most. In the end, they offered The Child to their dark gods…the ones who exist outside this realm and promise one day to return. Poor child. She sings, plays, and waits for her mother. She knows no better. She’s scared of the Strangers and even more scared of their gods. They hold her in their cold and empty arms whenever The Woman calls. They hold her so that she may not.
In my kitchen are the Lady from the Shadows and the Thing from the Cauldron. The pair dance by the light of a fire long since extinguished, a tarantella of passion and loathing. The Lady moved into my lonely walls after The Woman had succumbed to old age and anguish. The twisted rites of the Strangers were nothing compared to her vile practices. She possessed a ravenous appetite for sex and darkness. I saw nothing but emptiness within her foul soul. She wanted to take a demon as a lover so that she would never take the bed alone again. The Servants, her slaves, were taken for this reason. Their life forces were the vehicle of the Thing’s journey. I remember how it felt…how so very horrible it felt… when their warm blood was spilled. When The Thing came into this world, I shuddered. Dust flew from my rafters, my windows rattled. It further cast me in darkness, evil, and isolation. I should have never have seen any of the barbaric acts. A home is a place of safety. I know knew no one would ever be safe in me again.
The Man of Blood toils in my basement. Once he used the tools for healing, but soon found a more diabolical use for them. He brought helpless souls into my dank basement. He made their pain his food and danced to their hollow screams. They took days to die down there, their rot adding to mine in as they stayed chained to my moldering walls. His barbaric ways cast the darkest shadow on me. After he died at his own blood-caked hands, no one else dared move in. It was then I was an outcast. I would never know rest again. These are beings within my grim roster. They are the passengers on a ship that will never land. I am that ship that will never sink.
It’s been many years but finally something is happening. A few people come by and look around. They carry cameras and odd equipment. They talk about electromagnetic fields and temperature fluctuations while going from room to room. The first humans through my doors after so long see me as a curiosity. They have no fear. The Woman is particularly upset about the intrusion. She paces up and down the corridors. She is crying about being thrown out. Where would she go? What would happen to her Child? Whenever the living ones came near her, she floats out as quickly as possible. She trusted them once. They betrayed her. They killed in her in a way that she thought was the cruelest of them all. I creak to reassure her she would be fine. I try to comfort her the best way I know how. She relents and vanishes into the dusty corner of the room in which she once slept.
The Strangers in Cloaks are also disturbed. They stay within the confines of my rafters and look upon the living with malice and contempt. These people would make good offerings to their gods, they think. If only they had solid hands with which to take the flesh of the intruders. Perhaps then the gods would set The Strangers free. Perhaps they would even embrace The Strangers as they did the Child.
The Thing from the Cauldron and the Man of Blood are bold in their attempts to get the humans’ attention. They materialize as shadowy figures, make strange vocalizations, and rap upon my walls in their zeal. This only makes the intruders more intent on staying. The Man says he can taste their blood. He tries to get the tools of his gruesome trade from the dirt floor of my basement. He screams in anger as he realizes he can no longer touch them. The Thing takes The Lady by the hand and they dive at the intruders. How lovely the quivering men would be for a new twisted game of ecstasy and feasting. The men with machines scream and run. There would have to be more people and more equipment to make a true diagnosis on me, they say.
The Fair Haired Child cries more than usual. She senses death, she says. Not a normal death, but a death that was not like any other on earth. She gives up playing with her toys and stays in her dark with the gods instead. The Woman in Black searches every hour on the hour. She tells me she cannot rest until she finds The Child. She also tells me she feels death coming and wants the child with her when the time comes. She doesn’t want to die alone again. The Thing and the Lady have taken to the kitchen. They writhe and moan in sickening pleasure. It angers The Man of Blood. He flies into a rage and beats the floors. Why must they have gratification and he not? He only wants to kill again. It is a crime I will not allow gain. I am diseased enough.
After everyone settles, the questions come. What will happen? Is this the end that physical death could not bring? They ask me to protect them. Their curses are now pleas. The rage that they wielded upon me once seems to have waned. Was I not a tormentor to them? Why ask a tormentor f
or comfort? I cannot offer them anything. I am but a shell of decay and nothingness. How can nothing do something?
The people have returned and there are more of them. They carry more equipment. Strange machines are plugged in, glowing and humming with lifeless life. Once again, electricity circulates within me. It has been a while since I felt anything. I do not know how to react. My body is not used to this. Long extinct lights try to shine. Some explode, some fizzle, others stay on. My ancient, clunky furniture is moved about. My moldering wood floors become riddled with scratches and gouges. If I had blood, it would be pouring out of these new wounds. Nails and screws are driven into my walls. I creak in protest but no one listens. My tenants are wild with emotion. They sense my uneasiness and dread. They know their benefactor is not well.
All about me, the people have made themselves at home. Where has their revulsion and stark fear gone? I am not an object of such emotion in their eyes. I am merely an object. No, they have no interest in me. It is my goodly inhabitants that they desire. But they do not desire the people in the way they think. Would the foolish beings of flesh stay if they knew what my people wanted? No. I think the silly mortals would run screaming from me the way they should have in the first place.
The Man of Blood is angry. He is also anxious. He wants to show them his hospitality. He makes loud noises within my basement to get their attention. The Woman in Black shrieks aloud. My transgressors also hear her distress. They point their machines in the directions of the noises. Upstairs, the Child cries. She is answering her mother’s call. Mother and daughter can hear one another. The humans are frantic. They plug in more machines. I feel the electricity surge faster. I cannot take all this life coursing through me. I have not felt it in so long. It is hard to hold myself together. In the kitchen, The Thing and The Lady break windows and destroy doors. They appear to the humans and fill them with absolute terror. Their forms are not like what was expected. They are intensely more frightening. I am alive with activity again. The Man of Blood touches a scared woman who has hidden in the basement. He laughs and touches her again. I sense her heart almost explode in sheer horror. He dances the way he did all those many years back. He has a victim once more. Fear is once again the order of the day within my confines. There is not a room within me that is not alive.
In the basement, my fuse box is also screaming. Like my body, it cannot stand the stress. Sparks fly and land upon the long dry wood of my support beams. A small flame appears. The Man of Blood bellows a warning. It goes unheard amongst the other shouts and screams. He is quickly consumed along with the woman he has. The flames grow and quickly spread. If I could feel true pain, I know that I would be screaming along with the beings inside me. Great fiery holes appear in first floor as the wood is burned. The people realize now that something is wrong. They race towards my entrance from all over to escape. The fire has beaten them. My skeleton is a great conductor for the flames. They did not stand a chance. Their screams match of those of my tenants. Fear and pain of death swoop in. In the blazing remains of my kitchen, the Lady of Shadows and the Things from the Cauldron hold one another in a final embrace. The Strangers in Cloaks throw up their arms and allow themselves to be with their gods. They have finally taken their children home. The Woman in Black falls to her knees. Upstairs, a lock is been opened. The Strangers no longer hold the key. The Child has come down from my attic. Mother and daughter are together for the last time. My entire structure is a bonfire. I feel myself going. I feel my body giving way to an element stronger than myself. My walls fall and my floors collapse. A crowd has formed and people are looking at me. I am no longer a symbol of fear. I am the passing of a nightmare. Scorn has gone from their eyes. There is now only relief. My passengers have arrived at their destinations. I am now truly dead. I am a memory.