MicroHorror

When wood creaks, it’s in pain. A wistful moan, a visceral rumble, a sudden shriek that spirals off into frequencies beyond hearing.

At night, I walk alone down the hallway. The light bulb’s burnt out, the ladder that would reach it lying busted in the back of the shed.

With my every step, the wood cries.

As I leave the bedroom, the wood chokes out a sob. It’s a woman, wrapped in chains, her wrists raw where the links saw at her flesh. Her prison sweats, beads of boiling liquid rippling across the floor, sliding down the walls, dripping from the ceiling to land searing on the backs of her legs.

I look to the window for light, but the moon is obscured. Wind rattles the leaded glass, the pane pealing at the base of the sill.

In the dark of the hallway, the wood grits its teeth and bellows. It’s a man, muscles taut, the twine of his veins tracing blue coils along his pulsing form. His room is a coffin, the space so confined he can’t exhale. He sucks in air and strains at the walls of his cell while something slimy burrows its way into his body. It eats and eats but never grows full.

A candle’s flame throws shadows on the wall by the closet. Forms bubble over like boiling water, tumors of light bulging at their borders, then shrink, flicker, and fade back into the blackness.

At the head of the stairs, the wood lets out a pitiful cry. I close my eyes to beat back the image of a child fleeing down an endless tree-lined corridor. Laughter follows, and taunting voices, and a breeze that carries the scent of burnt cedar. Home is always just out of sight.

When I walk through my house at night, I see eyes peering up at me from between the floorboards. I feel hands clawing at the soles of my bare feet, curved fingernails drawing thin lines of blood as they wrestle for purchase.

I hear the wood, creaking its cries of pain, and wonder how Hell found its way into my house.