I've Seen a Dying EyeA Story by Lewis Davis-Norman I have three weeks out just to collect my creative thoughts (I wasn't very happy with my most recent poems) and thought I'd churn out a short story! I hope you enjoy it.
Hostis maximus ipse es I can’t believe I’m here again. As I took a bold stride out of the carriage, the air placed an icy kiss on the back of my neck which caused a tingling chill to trickle down my back, like a frozen finger had graced my body. A thin, winter fog enveloped me immediately, swallowing me and making my vision hazy. Overhead, I could make out the silhouette of the house, a tenebrous blemish in the sublime landscape of the Scottish highlands. The towering manor was shrouded in a veil of snow, partly hiding its decrepit and abhorred exterior from the exquisite elegance of the highlands, but I could see enough. As I approached it, with all manner of caution, I noticed that seven years of abandonment has taken its toll on the eerie building. The dilapidated windows were black with lifelessness and a claw of ivy clasped its spiny talon around the frame. Years of pain had been etched onto the doorframe and a jagged stalactite of ice hung like a formidable, frozen fang. There was an ache in my stomach, yearning for me to turn back. But I had to go on. This was the end and it was my duty to enter. *** 23rd
December 1880 Dear Diary, Today, I am no longer a yearning bachelor. Today, I am a married man
and my future is promising and utterly fulfilling. As I looked out of the
window of the Oculus Manor, the constellations of stars formed golden,
Arabesque patterns against the atramentous, black sky. Being a man of
astrological beliefs, I found the omens of the stars to be auspicious and
favourable. The manor is a building of the utmost, British beauty. It is secluded
in the furthest reaches of the 24th
December 1880
***
And now I stand bold at the manor door again. It looms over me, making me feel small and insecure. The hinges were like tiny bronze fangs protruding from the doorframe. The menacing entrance seemed to be warding me back, as if it was deflecting me from entering the manor. What devastating secrets does this horrid place hold? Boldly I gave the door a firm push. It let out an agonizing groan and the rusted bolts screamed in horror. However, eventually the ancient barrier subsided and I entered into the unknown... *** 23th
December 1881 Dear Diary, One year has passed to this day. No
word has been heard, not to anyone. Every day it gets worse, clawing away at my
being and my soul. Is this what it feels like to be mad? I don’t sleep anymore.
I cocoon myself in a corner, sobbing into my wretched palms. Without her I am a
skeleton, wasted away in the corner of a room in an inn. Some call me ‘Mr
Havisham’. But they’re the demented ones. They don’t know how it feels. *** Now, the events that follow this point may be deemed as ludicrous and untrue. It is my deepest regret to say that this is not true. Every chilling occurrence that I describe to you is terrifyingly correct. I entered the manor for the final time, my heart in my ears and my lungs rasping for breath. I was overwhelmed for a moment, and for a dazzling second, the ceiling of the hallway seemed to swell like a diaphragm. The door closed itself behind me, and act that I found rather queer, but I dismissed it. The ancient paintings hung on the walls of the hallway, the faces of scholars and dukes coated in a film of dust. The antique artwork unnerved me a little bit. Maybe it was the feeling of déjà vu and the flood of memories that their solemn faces brought back. However, it felt deeper than that. It was their eyes. Their chalk-like eyes were horrifically perplexing and they seemed to coldly stare in my direction, turning their exquisite and artistic identity into something far more menacing...
*** 6th
February 1887 Today I tried to kill myself. I say
tried, but it was not an impressive effort. In all my mortal wretchedness, I
can’t even bring myself to take my own pathetic life. I have not contacted
other human life for over three years now. I cannot bring myself to face their
judging eyes. I have not even been able to find courage to write my thoughts in
my diary until today. In one of my moments of hysterical madness, I tried to
rid myself of God’s gift of sight by gouging my accursed eyes out. Alas, I
don’t have the moral strength to perform such an act. I am weak. *** Liquid light poured from the doorway and I saw her standing there. Her figure was bold and as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light, she had the resemblance of an angel. She was attired in the same wedding dress that she had worn seven years ago, but the elegant garment had not lost a single tint of its white radiance. In the seven years that had passed, I had forgotten how beautiful her features were. Her hair rippled down to her shoulders in an alluring fashion and the memory of the last day I saw her came flooding back to my mind. Her lips were perfect, a piece of art that Michelangelo himself could not have attempted to carve, and her skin as soft as silk. ‘Darling!’ I proclaimed and proceeded to embrace her. ***
Dear Diary, Diary, as you are possibly aware, my condition has gotten better over
the past few months. I no longer detest my life or find the burning desire to
rid myself of the world. Nature has led me to feel this way. Whereas dead trees
lined the edges of paths like skeletal demons in winter, I found the rich lushness
of summer soothing and relaxing. And now my life has taken a further benevolent turn. Yesterday, I
received a letter in the post, informing me to travel to the Oculus manor. At
first, I was sceptical; however my eyes glanced to the bottom of the page. *** Suddenly, to my intense shock, she buried her face in her hands and like Medea she let out a pained and torturous cry. Confused I approached nearer and to my horror, noticed that her skin was not pink with life but pallid and ghastly white. As she began to raise her head, I noticed that her eyes were burning with fury and her lips did not breathe a single wisp of life.
She said nothing for a moment. Then, curiously, she gave a tremendous cackle which chilled me to my core. “The Manor sees everything.” She hissed. Following this, she pointed a long, bony finger at one of the paintings on the wall. In a second, the demented eyes disappeared and the frame of the painting no longer held the artwork but showed the image of myself and my wife asleep on the last night that we were together! I travelled over to it, absorbed by this supernatural phenomenon. It was like I was staring into my past. We were lying there on our bed, sleep glazed
over our eyes. An aura of calm enveloped us, bringing a tear to my eye.
However, this peace was short lived. Suddenly, my eyes flicked open and my
irises were stricken with rage. My hands morphed into spiny claws, tearing into
the mattress of the bed, and like a callous reptile, I tasted the bitter air.
All human appearance had been drained from my body as my white skin began to
harden and blacken, as if the fires of hell had scorched my body and poisoned
me with its evil. Soon, a curious black mist cloaked around my body, making my
appearance even more terrifying. My wife
awoke and screamed...but there was nobody to hear her screams. In a swift
movement, my shadowy, insect-like figure pierced her heart and dragged her down
to the cellar to dispose of her remains, like some broken toy. Burying my tearful eyes into my palms I wept. It was I! In an accursed Schizoid nightmare, I murdered my beautiful wife. Now, she approached me, and with a chilling kiss upon my cheek, she plunged a knife into my heart. And then, we were united in death. © 2013 Lewis Davis-NormanAuthor's Note
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