Margaret Schilling

There is a story on the net about a patient gone missing from a mental institution in the US. This is a purely fictional take on that case...

             Strange have been my dreams of late. I know I have read something similar in a book I cannot recall, at a time I do not remember. Or maybe I have heard it in one of my night travels to realms I should not know.

            Tricks of a twisted mind, Dr.Einberg had written down with his clean handwriting covering the notepad with his palm as if I could not read it from my end of the desk. They had my arms tied with that white jacket, not my eyes. Fools whispering outside the vast white room while they thought I was asleep, words of pity for poor Margaret. I pity you for you are blind. You have not seen them and, thus, will never know.

            Now my room is small and dark. There are no arrays of empty beds and I wear no white jacket. Nor any clothes at all, that is. How long have I been here? Why am I alone? Poor Margaret. I don’t remember being moved here. She lost both her baby and her beloved husband. They must have drugged me like they did after my first attack on that round-faced, fat nurse. The baby died on her breast while nursing. Why am I still lying on this cold floor and where is everyone? Her husband shot himself after the funeral while she was still mourning next to him. The steel door looks barred from my side of the room. Am I hiding? Or are they coming to me even now when I am awake?

            The first dream came to me three nights after my husband Eric’s death, when my tears had finally gone dry and my weary eyes gave in to sleep.

I found myself seated on a single chair upon a dimly lighted stage. I am playing the violin to a very quiet audience which I cannot see. The rest of the venue is in the dark as the single spotlight was aimed at me. I play the Prelude of Johann Sebastian Bach’s First Suite for solo Cello transcribed for violin.

The sound was familiar. My husband Eric had bought a 45rpm vinyl of the whole suite at the garage sale of our neighbors. The widow of Martin Parker, Valery, had that sale after her husband’s death on October of 1976, only a month after they moved to the house next to ours. Eric loved Bach and kept playing that record through countless nights until our baby, Julie, came into our lives. I haven’t heard that Prelude for a long time.

Neither had I any musical talent or ability to play an instrument and yet there I was performing solo on a theater stage to an audience I could not see, playing my violin. It was a beautiful instrument made of light maple wood coated with a fine polish that made it shine to the faint light of the old spotlight above the center of the stage. The bow was made of a darker wood and had a pike-head finish.

 I kept performing until my final crescendo brought a deafening applause from my phantom listeners. I rose to my feet and bowed. Three massive chandeliers lit at once to reveal a large theater hall with a single level of circles around it. The walls were covered with thick dark red velvet and the chandeliers had at least a hundred bulbs each. What year was it? It looked like the grand concert venues of times past. And it was packed. Not a single empty seat could be seen as my eyes reached the back rows. Figures rose at the circles to offer me a warmer applause than before.

I approached the edge of the stage still holding my violin and pike-head bow to thank my loving audience. I bowed again and as I rose I glimpsed the first rows where the patrons gave me a standing ovation.

Fear struck me and I froze. Those faces were not human. Their skin was grey and pale like ashes from a long dead fire but their eyes looked like burning coal. Fiery red and unblinking they seem to stare at me from beneath the deepest pits of hell. They were all men, garbed in deep purple suits and covered with cloaks of black velvet. The ones on the circles were hooded. There I saw Eric holding Julie on the circle closest to the stage. Their eyes red and skin grey, they stood unmoving staring at me with a cold lifeless look. I screamed.

The applause stopped. They have sensed my fear. I run to the back of the stage but there was no exit only a thick curtain and behind it, a cold brick wall. The grey faced ones are on the stage now, approaching. What do you want from me? Skinny pale arms stretched. Is it the violin you want? Eric is nowhere to be found. Help me my love. No, no, what a fool I’ve been. Take Julie and run. Lord, save me.

 

Pre-dawn light found me standing outside our house on the small wooden porch wearing nothing but my light nightgown. February’s cold left me shivering but I didn’t move. The beautiful violin of light maple wood was on my right hand.

Valery found me a few hours later when my lips had turned blue and took me inside. She was a caring old lady, well past seventy with long white hair and soft voice. She stayed by my bedside for the nights that followed. The recurring nightmare ceased after a while and my sleep had been dreamless, perhaps due to the bitter drops she slipped into my water. I beseeched her to throw the violin away, that it was cursed. She ignored me but never left my side, until that moonless night when she fell asleep on the rolling chair next to my bed. A new dream came to me.

A strong cold wind was blowing under a silver cloud-covered sky. Where was I? There was snow on the ground of the small clearing amidst the pine forest. I stood watching them fight.

A tall, slender knight wearing polished steel armor he was with a lilac rose on his breastplate. A feather of the same color was atop his great helm while the visor was down. Steel gauntlets covered his hands that held a long sword and a kite shield with the emblem of the lilac rose upon it. Who are you?

The other was a knight clad in black lobster armor. His helm’s visor was long and pointed and held no shield. For a weapon, he carried a morning star made from the same black metal while a fire was burning on his breastplate. Roses cannot fight the fire, I thought. Who do I want to win?

They came upon each other with a rage and hatred that could be seen from the way they attacked. They don’t want to win, they want to kill. I stood kneeling on the frozen ground watching them, listening to the sound of steel against steel, waiting. A snowflake fell and then another until the snow started its white dance upon us. It hissed when it touched the fire emblem of the black knight. Time stood still. How long have they been fighting?

The morning star came down and crashed on the silver knight’s left pauldron. He screamed and I shrieked. He is the one protecting me. He let his shield fall on the pink, snow covered, ground. The black knight swung his weapon above his head while his opponent staggered. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, my vision was blurry. I was crying frozen tears that came down my cheeks while holding the silver knight’s head upon my lap. His visor was up and I could see Eric’s face inside the great helm. Blood covered my white dress, blood that came gushing from his torn breastplate. I looked at him and more tears came. His eyes where milky white, lifelessly staring at the void. No parting words of love?

I raised my head to find the black knight. He was a few yards away on his arms and knees trying to breathe. His helm and weapon were down next to him and blood was pouring from a wound on his neck. Smoke rose from where his blood met the frozen ground. I knew that face! Skin pale like ash and fiery eyes now set upon me while his life was leaving him.

I took Eric’s sword and rose to my feet holding it with both my hands towards the black knight. Don’t come near me.

“What do you want? I don’t have the bloody violin. Leave me be.” I screamed.

 He looked at me and laughed. It was a madman’s laughter that made my ears bleed. I stepped back, tripped and fell. He came to me with blood on his steel covered hand. Lord, take me.

 

Morning came and I was again standing shivering on my house’s porch. I was still grasping the violin but now my other hand was not empty. I held Eric’s sword, red and dripping. People stared at me from my yard, murmuring to each other. They approached with caution while others entered the house. I heard a scream. They have found her.

I still have no recollection of what followed. I woke up days later at The Ridges of Athens, Ohio. Or was it years?

They think that I am mad. Fools, they have not seen them and cannot know. But I do. They watch me even now while I lay naked upon this cold floor. Outside a storm is raging and water drips from the rusty iron frame on the wall. Is this me staring from outside the stained window?

 

My room is empty and I am alone…

 

I feel tired. Oh Lord, please don’t let me sleep.

 

My eyes are getting heavy. At least don’t let it be the sword dream.

 

My room is empty and barred from the inside…

 

Lord, I know I will dream tonight for You are wise. And it will be the sword dream for You are kind.

 

There is no one here for me to kill but myself.

Author's Note

English is not my mother tongue so there may be some grammar problems. This is one of my first stories on the genre.It is mostly an exercise on first person POV.

Reviews

[N. Tripper]

I liked it. Your story has a darker tone to it - that I actually search for on this site. Horror is my favorite genre and when it 'hits the spot' it makes me giggle... I know, weird. Anyway, this story is written exceptionally well for someone who grew up speaking a different language. I couldn't even tell while reading that English is not your mother tongue. You don't have any grammar issues that are noticeable. Except for when you start a sentence with the word 'Neither' you must follow up by using 'nor' not 'or'. *Neither goes with *nor and *Either goes with *or. Yes, this is a first person story and, as you call it, an exercise. Maybe, in your promo, leave out the part where you 'borrowed' this idea from a possible hoax - your story is your no matter what caused you to write it down, and it stands on its own. You write very well! Thanks for the read!

[Katherine S.]

Wow! I loved this! I like stories like this where they almost mess with your mind a little bit, I find those to be the best kind of stories. This was written wonderfully, and the imagery is superb. 100/100!