MicroHorror

As she approached the house she could hear his voice inside, the words muffled and angry. Any reply was lost to the rushing wind. Was he alone in there? The house, an ugly red-brick square, loomed above her. Dark gables hung over its two prominent windows like furrowed eyebrows. The house was ugly; she’d hated it from the start. She couldn’t imagine what Paul had seen in it in the first place.

She took two steps up the long wooden staircase that led to the front door, then retreated to the sidewalk. Those stairs, those awful stairs. She could see the crater her foot had made in one step the day she’d fallen (not true; she’d been pushed) a few weeks ago. She’d sworn then she’d never again set foot inside. There was something wrong with this house. If only she could get Paul to see it, too…

“Paul!” she shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands, and from inside the house, Paul’s voice suddenly went silent. “Paul! I know you’re in… I want to see you…”

The last time she was here, a week or so ago, she’d been able to see him through the front window. He’d been bent before the fireplace, painted orange by the glow, as he fed it the pages of the novel he’d been working on for months. She’d screamed at him and pounded on the glass, but he’d ignored her, just kept handing page after page to those hungry flames. Now, however, the room was dark, silent, empty. She rapped on that same window again and shouted his name, trusting that he could hear her. “Paul! You’re in trouble… I believe you’re in danger… at least come to the door!”

Now there was the sound of the front door unclasping.

She went to the foot of the stairs and could see six inches of inviting emptiness between door and jamb. As she watched, the gap narrowed slightly as the door struggled against the wind.

“Paul?” she said. Against her better judgment, she began to climb the long staircase. She took each step with perhaps more care than necessary, and she held tightly to the railing. When she reached the stair she’d broken, she stepped widely over it. Paul did not appear at the top of the stairs. “Paul?” she said. “I’m coming up. But I’m not coming in, all right?”

When she reached the landing, she pushed the door open with a gentle creak. The foyer was dark. She could see an expanse of burgundy rug, Paul’s empty clawfoot table in the square hall beyond, and from there only the dim wall. To the left from that hall would be the fireplace; to the right, Paul’s desk and writing space. “Paul?” she said. “Where are you?”

She walked through the foyer and into the hall, her shoes thumping against the hard wood. It seemed as cold in here as outside. There were odd smells: smoke, tea, something like wood rot. As she passed the clawfoot table, she felt an overwhelming revulsion. There was only danger here. She had to find a way to convince Paul she was right, that he was in danger, too.

Behind her, the front door creaked closed. She turned and squinted against the dying sunlight. A shadowy human form hung there, backlit from the doorway. Sunlight burned her eyes. The figure appeared hooded, perhaps wearing a cloak. Or perhaps there was no figure at all. Was it merely a coat hanging from Paul’s coat stand? She chided herself for not noticing the coat stand on the way in.

“Paul?” she said. “Paul? Is that you?”

Outside the wind whistled and shook the door. The sun scoured the windows. Shadows lengthened.

She took two steps backward.

Suspended there, on silent feet–or worse, no feet at all–the shape swept down upon her.