The house used to be so quiet, such a lovely place to live and grow. A spacious property assured for plenty of room to move about, allowing for the best parties to be thrown as well as any athletics to be performed. Yes the ideal homestead to withstand all the rigors life has to throw at any one of us. A haven chosen by a warm, loving family.
Matthew the father, who is the bread winner and a fair lord of the manor, as it were. Janet the mother who is caring and supportive with a sharp mind always tuned in to the best method of completing all necessary tasks. Three beautiful, wonderful children barely in their adolescence. Finally, an aged grandmother who has lived with them ever since her husband, had passed away ten years ago.
A nice simple place where this happy family has lived for all of thirty years in one form or another, thirty years of silence. What other domicile could boast such a record? None that I am aware of and being well versed as I am, I know of a lot of contenders for the crown, but only one can hope to wear the ornamentation of royalty.
That happy solitude suddenly comes to a halt one day. Why? Who can say? Perhaps there was a passing comet overhead. Perhaps the renovations at the old school had something to do with it. Maybe even this was just a bizarre side effect of global warming. Whatever the truth, the peace and tranquility the house exudes is suddenly and inexplicably shattered.
From the outside it seems as if nothing has changed. Not passerby would give the home a second glance as they carried on their merry way in far too much of a hurry. Even the occupants don't sense the change. Neither mother, nor children nor grandmother. Not a one is any the wiser, But wait were forgetting one.
Matthew has always been a caring father, a devoted husband and an all around decent human being. His credo, instilled by his parents from generations gone by, is to serve the needs of others above his own. He has done just this throughout his life, for the most part, as he adheres to this philosophy as though it were life itself, but it's soon to be put to the test.
He cannot say exactly when the change occurred, for like a nice quiet sky hiding behind its façade a terrible, violent storm, it all changed in an instant. What's more, to the man in question this was not simply a sudden turning, but rather it felt as though there was no change. As though the events that transpired had always been.
What events am I referring to, and why be so cryptic about them? Well, the veils about to fall so there is no need to fret. No need to fuss. I will tell all, eventually. But it is a facet that may lend no peace of mind. So, enjoy this last haven of solitude before the story takes form. Everybody ready? Too bad, we're going anyway.
During the day he can feel the strain upon his person, pushing him in directions he does not want to go. But the night are far worse as voices bombard his mind and practically scream at him to fulfill the diabolical tasks set before him during the day. And whenever the voices die down the noise, which always play in the background, takes their place.
All of which brings us to this particular evening with Matthew sitting in his favorite easy chair trying to read the book in his lap. What book you may ask, as you are so very curious? A matter you might want to look into. Anyway, even he can't tell, as he cannot read it, no matter how much he tries to focus on it despite the pain that sears his brain as a result.
His mind is too heavily bombarded by the disturbances that had recently befallen the house. He does try to read the book though, not because he enjoys it, but it's one of the few activities where he can focus his mind and leave the bizarre circumstances behind. It isn't working and it's only serving to frustrate him which is the last thing he needs right now.
Janet, senses something amiss when she sees his knuckles suddenly go white. "Is something wrong?" she asks as she sets her own book down and reaches for him.
"What's that dear?" Matthew returns, nonchalantly as he lowers his pages.
"I asked if anything was the matter," Janet clarifies and readjusts her seat.
"No dear, why should anything be the matter?" Matthew assures her as he stands up and sets the book down. "I'm going into the kitchen for a soda. Would you like anything?"
"No, I'm fine," Janet returns as she tries to read through the mask that is her husband's face.
Matthew leaves the room with an air of bemused calmness, but it does not last beyond the sight of the concerned party. He traverses the long distance that is the house's main hall and entrance way, but each step is harder than the last and he can feel his feet sink into the carpet as though it might swallow him up.
The voices, the noises are getting worse the further he gets. What's more he can't even tell what the voices say nor what the noises are, as they erupt suddenly and are gone the next second without hardly a whisper or an echo. Try as he might with the few brain cells he still has at his disposal as the rest are belabored with pain, he cannot discern them.
Most people would have tried to find outside assistance, or at least brought their significant other into their confidence. Perhaps even an aged mother could have shed some light upon the peculiar happenings. There is simply no telling the use other can bring to a matter believed to be well and truly buried.
Why didn't Matthew pursue any of these possibilities that were so evidently laid out before him? Why suffer so in silence when other could at least grant him the comfort he so desperately needs? Because more than the noises, more than the voices, he fears the truth. That it's all in his head, that he's simply going mad and there is nothing he can do.
So long as these terrible events remain nothing more than horrid manifestations of an unseen sentient, he can go on telling himself that there's an end to the madness and so long as he holds steadfast that end is in sight. And so he holds on with all his might while burying his malady deeper and deeper so none will see it.
Strangely, this lurid notion is not far off the mark, for that's the very night that the voices start to become intelligible. Not at first mind you, they do like to play their games after all. But little by little they can be perceived all the more if you but stop and listen to what they are trying to communicate, in the most roundabout of fashions.
Matthew hears a single word spoken in an almost perceivable fashion, but can't quite make out what it is. He ceases moving and listens intently. The voice grows louder and lashes out with perfect clarity. "The attic," is all it says.
The beleaguered and besought man finds himself turned around and heading upstairs before he even knows what's going on.
"What's the matter? Not thirsty all of a sudden?" his wife calls playfully, but she receives no response and so returns to her book, undaunted by her husband's silence.
Matthew walks up the stairs and finds himself on the second floor. His eyes run the gauntlet before him, passing the children's rooms and settling upon the door that grants access to the topmost floor of the house, the attic by traditional standards. He starts off in a blazing fever until he notices his offspring looking upon him and smiles in turn.
His hand finds itself upon the knob and suddenly the door is open and he does not know how it happened. Now there's only to walk the steps. He is terrified and had he control over his body he probably wouldn't have ascended, but he has no such control as he takes each one and feels his fervor grow to such a pitch that he is physically sweating.
Like a fluttering bug he's being drawn ever closer to a strange light, which he hopes doesn't turn out to be a bug zapper. A thought that would have at least made him smile, but now, at this time, there's no humor to be found in anything. I guess what I'm saying is, he's powerless to change the course of events as they are unfolding.
The stairs soon came to an end, and Matthew stands upon the final one which blends into the rest of the floor. At last, his strange wandering has ended. At least, for the time being. Finally, he once again has control over his body. A fact that is now of little comfort as he finds the voices and the noise to have dispersed and in their place is only a deep feeling of emptiness.
The chair that sits before him has always faced the stairs. It had been brought up several weeks prior, after the family had redecorated. The old, heavy recliner no longer matched its upholstered counterparts. However, like a faithful dog who'd grown too old, they were far too fond of it, to be rid of it. So, they had opted to keep it out of sight until such time as it proved useful once more.
Sweat erupts anew all over Matthews body. A cold sweat that lends neither heat nor cooling moisture. Just a sickening sticky feeling and a cold shudder to go along with it. All the while his mind tries like mad to process the information being fed to him. And though he tries to make sense of it all, he cannot help but feel as though he's missing critical pieces to the puzzle. He's not far wrong.
The chair is far too heavy to be moved by any one occupant of the house saving Matthew himself and he had not touched it since it had come to lie in its current place. Still, this chair is not only turned all the way about, but also spins slowly as though it had such a function. It would seem as though reality is warping within the confines of this room and those who bare witness will just have to make allowances.
A strange glowing figure sits contentedly upon the oversized chair. Its hands folded and its oval, nondescript face stares ahead. "I must congratulate you," it speaks up and raises its hands. "I expected a complete moral degradation, yet you proved too resilient and for that I applaud you." The specter claps its hands, though they make no sound.
Matthew is struck dumb. The events are beyond his reckoning and he can hear many voices whispering all about him, saying diverse things, mostly questions which go unanswered. He tries to focus on the words but finds it as difficult a task as separating the individual droplets of an ocean, as the tide keeps washing them in and out.
He wets his parched lips and cracks his swollen throat. "Who are you?" he asks and c hardly believe the words are capable of exiting the prison of his mind.
The phantasm before him leers for several moments. "I am responsible," seems to be all the explanation necessary as the strange visage carries on. "You are not going crazy. You are just as sane as you have ever been, if that's any kind of commendation to take comfort in." It leans forward. "What you have heard these past months are the words of the restless. However, this is the last night. Their patience is at an end. Tonight, they come for you. So, I give you a choice to save yourself." It points a finger in the man's direction. "Free these damned souls and they will leave you be. But be warned your nightmare will become someone else's. Or you can let them continue to chip away at your sanity. Choose carefully. Either way, go to the basement."
Matthew's head is spinning. Who is this being that calls itself simply 'responsible' ? Why are their sentences so short and cryptic? More importantly, should he believe it? After all it had said that he was not going crazy, a matter too tantalizing to simply pass up, but perhaps too much so.
Perhaps this was just a further delusion, but perhaps not. Then there's the moral dilemma which becomes the cherry on top of the crap sundae he is forced to consume. Should he free the spirits only to have them infect someone else? Really though, does he have a choice? How long can he withstand their onslaught until at last he gives in? Give in to what? He doesn't know, but he fears it's diabolical in nature.
This time Matthew has full control over his body. He turns and gives one last look over his shoulder, the ghost remains seated, before he steps down. The steps vanish before him and he's surrounded by a multitude of people all shuffling about in a cavernous passageway. They all wear clothes of a forgotten era, carrying torches to light their way.
There are two men who stand aside from the rest. They're together and encourage the others to carry on. Quietly they hold conference with one another that the lone pilgrim from the future can hear clearly. "So, brother Simon, how much would you say these good pilgrims have left behind?" the first asks while leaning to his cohort.
"Well brother Damien," the second begins as he waves to the people. "Far more than you or I could possibly spend in thirty whole lifetimes."
"And what of the obstacle we require to ensure we get away Scott-free?" Damien inquires and gives sinister smile.
"The boulder is in place," Simon assures him and holds out a hand as though he plans to assist, but does not move. "Held by only a simple wooden pin. One tug on the rope and it will roll in place."
"And there's no chance of it rolling before we're clear?" Damien presses and gives a nod.
"None," is Simon's curt response and he gives a wink.
The procession of pilgrims carries on and Matthew follows closely to the two swindlers, one who leads from the front, the other making sure no one gets left behind. They lead the people through a winding passage which ends at a small hole that requires the people bow to enter. Soon all are gathered within and hold their place.
Brother Damien stands in the center. "Dear faithful pilgrims," he addresses the assembled mass with his arms out stretched. "The lord has truly smiled upon your endeavors and your sacrifice. The end time is indeed upon us but worry not, for you shall be spared the trials and tribulations to come." He gives a look to his fellow shyster. "Now brother Simon and I must go, for there are more faithful to be brought to such havens and we have a long journey ahead of us."
The people erupt into a chorus of a hallelujahs and hosannas, praising the shifty deeds of the two schemers, who bid the people goodbye as they make for the exit. It seems brother Damien should have cut his sermon a few moments short, for the boulder rolls into place before they get within five paces of the exit.
They stand in complete stillness as they realize they're stuck, doomed to die with the rest of these faithful. In full sight of their coming demise these two men fall upon their knees and beg forgiveness of the god they had coined for these people. The people are not so forgiving and tear these two men apart, before lamenting their own pitiable fate.
These are the events that Matthew bears witness to. The events he surmises that are the reason for his madness. He even finds his perspective shift to the outside of the cave. He watches as the shifting seasons little by little erode away the passage. The cave itself is soon to be opened, but mother nature has another plan altogether. She adorns the mass grave with green grass and flowers, a fitting tribute.
Over time, people come to settle in the place and build their houses. It's not long before more modern methods come into place, where the foundation of the house is placed below ground. An act that requires excavation before the cement is poured. One such site is just a few feet from the mass grave of the faithful and the undeserving swindlers. The house placed atop the foundation is very familiar to Matthew.
The images stop playing altogether and the haunted man finds himself in the basement. He's facing the westerly most wall, behind which he knows lies the opening. In his hand is a small hammer, and though he knows he'd never get the job done with so inadequate a tool, he's past reasoning, past all logic, past even his own humanity. It is a job to be done and will be so.
He raises the tool and strikes the wall again and again, each time growing with more intensity. He's reliving those first days of insanity all over again, only this time he is giving in to the diabolical influences. He's caving in skulls, breaking bones, mutilating bodies and he is enjoying it. His insanity reaches to such heights that he's smiling so intensely that blood is seeping from his teeth.
In the back of his head Matthew is only just conscientious of what he is doing. He can hear his wife calling down from the top of the basement stairs. He can hear his children raising questions, but he can't stop. He is a locomotive that has run completely off the tracks after attaining speeds beyond its capability and to stop now would be equal parts impossible and unconscionable.
Each strike brings with it a little more of the foundation, which in turn brings him one step closer to salvation. A prospect that matters little to the person in charge, the one who has control over Matthew's body, the insanity which has broken away so thoroughly that it has manifested a kind of out shell that leeches what it needs from the broken man as one is now indistinguishable from the other.
Tears start to slide from his eyes as Matthew flies into a rage screaming at the top of his lungs. His wife answers in the same method from the top of the stairs, too frightened to descend. His children cry and plead with him to stop. Even his mother is calling to him. He pushes them away. He has to see the matter done. Tonight, the nightmare is finally going to be over.
With the last of the foundation goes the hammer as well. Now Matthew has only his bare hands. He plunges them into the rock and loose soil. He claws, ignoring the pain and the blood. He's rabid, no longer ruled by logic, even reason has fled. He just continues to plunge and pull without any regard for anyone or anything around him, least of all himself.
At his feet is gathered a strewn mixture of dirt and blood and stone. The tips of his fingers are cracked, his fingernails all but mangled. None of it matters as he thrusts his hands deeper and deeper into the wall of Earth. Until at last, the final stone rolls away and down the simple slope as though it were of its own mind and had decided to exit as it slumps on the floor.
A stream of energy bursts from the opening as though a soda bottle and the contents are under pressure. It washes over Matthew, bringing him to his knees and he buries his face in his hands and weeps. Tears of joy flow from his eyes, the madness is gone. The sudden, violent impulse is no more. He raises his hands in triumph, his gnarled bleeding hands as he grasps hold of the salvation he'd won.
He listens intently. He can hear nothing. Neither the spirits nor his family. He calls out to his wife, there's no response. He ascends the stairs. The door hangs open. He calls for his children, still there's no response. He walks the carpet of the hall stopping in front of the door leading to the gathering room. Lastly, he calls out for his mother, again only silence.
Matthew turns the knob and opens the door wide that cuts off the basement from the rest of the house. He holds a moment in the entry as he listens. Still, he hears nothing. He makes his way through the rooms and finds his entire family, standing in a row, all with their heads bowed while standing upright.
He rushes to his wife and embraces her. "It's all over," he speaks again and again, as the tears stream down his face.
Matthew's wife does not return the gesture, but it matters little, he's so happy. Then it dawns on him, something is wrong. He takes a few steps back. The assembled group raise their heads and stare at him with flashing eyes, even the children.
Then the voice from before rises in his head. "Free these damned souls and they will leave you be but be warned your nightmare will become someone else's. Choose carefully."
In the prevailing instant Matthew understood the horror he'd unleashed.
The spirits had been freed. No longer are they anchored to their resting place. They could come and go as they pleased, and it seems they are pleased to stay in this happy home, with this warm, loving family. After all, what better place could they hope to find than a nice, pleasant house which has enjoyed thirty years of silence? It's so hard to find a place you can call home, even for a ghost.