Last Wish
By J. S. Hill
Among the dust-covered antiques I sat before the fireplace reading by oil lamp, a stack of handwritten journals left by my grandfather whose recent passing; consumption they called it- had left me as the caretaker of his estate, such as it was.
I had spent the previous day settling his affairs and retired to the bulk of the estate which rested in a drafty old house that perched on an abrupt hill overlooking the outskirts of town. Built when the land was open country and left in a timeless state, the only modern improvement since, was a road that cut away and revealed the cyclopean walls of the foundation. The trees around the house were dark and twisted equally as unkempt as the briar thorns and undergrowth below them. This further served to fuel the many rumors and legends that my grandfather and the house itself; were very peculiar, to say the least. On several occasions since his death, unnatural screams could be heard coming from the house at night.
As the full moon waxed across the sky in the wee hours of the night, and the orange glow of the dying embers in the fireplace danced with the shadows, I began nodding off, but the last entry in the journal stuck in my mind as I drifted into the land of dreams. Bring my child to me.
In the dream I saw the warm wrinkled face of my grandfather staring back at me; he was younger and appeared happy. Soon, his face distorted and a cloak of shadows enveloped him.
A terrible scream in the dead of the night woke me, and I threw myself out of the chair and clambered around in the darkness searching for the lamp, but found it overturned in my stumbling. Another scream pierced the silence and a chill went up my spine and the short hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The scream sounded again, this time louder and becoming more of a woeful cry.
In the dark I heard scratching footsteps behind me as I knelt to pick up the box of matches that scattered onto the floor as I fumbled to light the lamp. There was nothing in the room with me, save for the long shadows that fell in the glow of the lamp. The basement door rattled on its hinges and the screaming continued at irregular intervals, but grew louder and more horrendous as I approached the basement door.
I pulled back the latch ever so slowly and opened the creaking door. I trembled as I raised the lamp illuminating rough stone steps that descended into the cold darkness. Down the stairs I went, feeling my way along the cracked walls; damp from the recent rains. At the bottom, the darkness seemed intent on crushing the life from the lamp, I saw cryptic sigils engraved along the walls, and a dark pedestal rose up through the center and there lay a large leather bound book covered in layers of dust. It dawned on me that I had not heard a scream for some time and wondered if I had dreamt it; that was not the case.
In the corner, on the cold earthen floor was a small horrible stone statue the palid color of a corpse. The head of which, stretched back mouth wide with long dagger-like fangs locked in an eternal scream. Leathery wings extended from its back and the arms ended in razor sharp talons. I dared not touch it for fear that the vile thing would spring to life. A terrifying vision crept into my mind, again of my grandfather standing over the leather bound book, and the statue peering over his shoulder like a demonic tutor turning pages as my grandfather scribed horrific images into the book.
I turned away and tried to force the scene from my mind. I covered the statue with a cloth from the upstairs room and ventured out into the woods behind the house. There I found the sunken ancient crypt overgrown with moss and vines where my grandfather was interred and in the soft earth buried the statue at my grandfather’s feet. I cannot explain it, but fulfilled the last wish of my grandfather.
- - -
I am an IT professional and trying to find time to write pulp fiction when not spending time with the family- wife, cat, and dog.
Recently received an Honorable Mention in the Writers of the Future Contest, and that story was later published in
a small press magazine, Encounters #4.
By J. S. Hill
Among the dust-covered antiques I sat before the fireplace reading by oil lamp, a stack of handwritten journals left by my grandfather whose recent passing; consumption they called it- had left me as the caretaker of his estate, such as it was.
I had spent the previous day settling his affairs and retired to the bulk of the estate which rested in a drafty old house that perched on an abrupt hill overlooking the outskirts of town. Built when the land was open country and left in a timeless state, the only modern improvement since, was a road that cut away and revealed the cyclopean walls of the foundation. The trees around the house were dark and twisted equally as unkempt as the briar thorns and undergrowth below them. This further served to fuel the many rumors and legends that my grandfather and the house itself; were very peculiar, to say the least. On several occasions since his death, unnatural screams could be heard coming from the house at night.
As the full moon waxed across the sky in the wee hours of the night, and the orange glow of the dying embers in the fireplace danced with the shadows, I began nodding off, but the last entry in the journal stuck in my mind as I drifted into the land of dreams. Bring my child to me.
In the dream I saw the warm wrinkled face of my grandfather staring back at me; he was younger and appeared happy. Soon, his face distorted and a cloak of shadows enveloped him.
A terrible scream in the dead of the night woke me, and I threw myself out of the chair and clambered around in the darkness searching for the lamp, but found it overturned in my stumbling. Another scream pierced the silence and a chill went up my spine and the short hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The scream sounded again, this time louder and becoming more of a woeful cry.
In the dark I heard scratching footsteps behind me as I knelt to pick up the box of matches that scattered onto the floor as I fumbled to light the lamp. There was nothing in the room with me, save for the long shadows that fell in the glow of the lamp. The basement door rattled on its hinges and the screaming continued at irregular intervals, but grew louder and more horrendous as I approached the basement door.
I pulled back the latch ever so slowly and opened the creaking door. I trembled as I raised the lamp illuminating rough stone steps that descended into the cold darkness. Down the stairs I went, feeling my way along the cracked walls; damp from the recent rains. At the bottom, the darkness seemed intent on crushing the life from the lamp, I saw cryptic sigils engraved along the walls, and a dark pedestal rose up through the center and there lay a large leather bound book covered in layers of dust. It dawned on me that I had not heard a scream for some time and wondered if I had dreamt it; that was not the case.
In the corner, on the cold earthen floor was a small horrible stone statue the palid color of a corpse. The head of which, stretched back mouth wide with long dagger-like fangs locked in an eternal scream. Leathery wings extended from its back and the arms ended in razor sharp talons. I dared not touch it for fear that the vile thing would spring to life. A terrifying vision crept into my mind, again of my grandfather standing over the leather bound book, and the statue peering over his shoulder like a demonic tutor turning pages as my grandfather scribed horrific images into the book.
I turned away and tried to force the scene from my mind. I covered the statue with a cloth from the upstairs room and ventured out into the woods behind the house. There I found the sunken ancient crypt overgrown with moss and vines where my grandfather was interred and in the soft earth buried the statue at my grandfather’s feet. I cannot explain it, but fulfilled the last wish of my grandfather.
- - -
I am an IT professional and trying to find time to write pulp fiction when not spending time with the family- wife, cat, and dog.
Recently received an Honorable Mention in the Writers of the Future Contest, and that story was later published in
a small press magazine, Encounters #4.
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Whoa! Talk about creepy! It gave me goosebumps! I'm glad I did not read this in the evening... ;)
Very nice story! Kudos to the author!