Cacophony of Hell
A wonder of sound landed sweetly on his ears. To most, the odd mixture of noise would be too much, but to him, it was a symphony. He sipped his rum and cola as the crackle of the fire sent ember fairies dancing up the chimney. As he watched, the patter of the rain was playing an ominous beat on his walls, windows, and rooftop. The frequent roar of thunder and howl of wind added to the concerto. The final crescendo was the bellow of the sea, as angry waves pounded the rocks of the cliff face that sat only a hundred yards out the large bay window of which he now viewed.
Steve Chadwick retired young, only forty-eight, but it is what his wife would have wanted. The aspiring inventor cashed out of his family business, he no longer had the desire to deal with medical equipment. Carol’s wish, the one regret--well there was two--was they never truly through up their hands, sold everything and bought a seaside bed and breakfast in England. So, now he honored her. He lifted his glass, watching the torrent outside. One year ago, she died of cancer, and three months later, they owned the beautiful Sandbur Manor, outside a small city in Wales.
There was plenty of work yet to do in the centuries old home, but tonight, his first night, was just his and hers. No staff, no workers, no repairmen. No. This evening was for just him, the beautiful display of nature outside, his rum, and her, or rather the memories of her. Nothing was going to interfere with this simple, emotional ritual.
He thought too soon. Lightning struck nearby and the windows rattled as the sound of the torn and excited air rippled throughout the house. The lighting dimmed, briefly, then returned to normal. He realized that his shirt was now soaked, his glass also half-full. He assumed that he jumped, slightly, if that at the most.
As he scanned the large sitting room, all seemed well. He took a deep breath, but before he could finish, another rumble rolled through the house. The darkness illuminated a cold blue as the lights flickered again. No; they pulsed, as if they were a heartbeat of someone being pulled back to life. They throbbed on and off for several seconds, then again stayed on.
A scratching sound in the wall caused him to turn, examining the paneled partition. He tilted his head, focusing, and thinking. It sound like rats or mice running amok.
Crack.
Another bolt struck.
Darkness…
Light…
Darkness…
Light…
Click - click - click
Again darkness, then light. The pulse continued for nearly ten seconds. Steven shivered. His drinking glass was shattered on the floor. The noise ran up the wall--in the wall--another rapidly behind him, across the floor. His heart was racing. He felt dizzy and flushed, but he stood, and then turned.
Nothing. The room was empty. He turned, doing a three-sixty. He was scared. He tried to think rationally, but he was nearing panic. He clenched his fist a few times, closed his eyes and breathed. Opening them, he focused on the flames of the fire, relaxing him, calming him to a state he could act rationally.
Slow down heart, he thought, slow down. His breathing grew deeper, slower.
Then it happened again. The thunder shook the house and the room cast in an odd blue hue, the smell of electricity crackling in the air. The lights beat in rhythm, and then stayed dark. The fire smiled at him; it smiled and winked. The face was as clear s the storm outside.
Something scurried past him. He felt it brush his leg and heard it trample through the broken glass. Another must have leapt from the mantle, but he could not see or identify it. It his shoulder and bounced off, tearing cloth and flesh with it. He heard it hit the floor behind him. He turned and saw the shadow run into the foyer before it stopped.
He bent his head, staring.
What the fuck? he rolled his eyes. How cliché.
He shook his head. Thoughts of acting in his own horror movie passed through his mind. It was a storm, he was drinking, and he had rats or cats running through his house. It was time he took over this situation. He felt his right shoulder and could see blood soaking through his shirt in the firelight.
Another scamper. This one ran and darted between his legs, slashing his calf in the process. It appeared as if it was running on two legs, not like a cat, but the slice felt like that of a cat’s scratch.
Son of a bitch. What in the hell is this?
The little creature skidded to a stop on the wood floor in the foyer, and then ran to the stairs. He blinked as crimson eyes winked at him, then watched the hellcat disappear up the steps.
“Okay, you little fuckers,” he said.
A shotgun and flashlight where in his bedroom, somewhat packed, but accessible. If these critters wanted a fight, a fight it would be.
He walked out of the sitting room and into the foyer. Scurrying and scampering could be heard on the floor above him. They had to be cats, wild frigging cats.
As he ascended the flight of stairs, the noise moved up to the third level.
They were leading him.
He took a left, running down the hall. He felt stupid, childish even, but he couldn’t help it. It was not fear now it was anger. As he reached his bedroom, the door slammed shut, nearly hitting him. A hideous crackle of a laugh followed. He followed the clicking sound up the wall, then as it crossed the room above him.
“How in the hell?” he uttered.
He did not know; he was past the point of caring.
Steven tried the door. The critter locked it, so he slammed his left shoulder into it. Bad idea. His shoulder throbbed in pain. He backed up, charged, and kicked with everything he had. The heavy oak door held, but the door mechanism did not. The door flung open, bouncing on the wall and swinging back, nearly hitting him again.
He pushed it aside and ran in, knowing which box to rip open. Throwing various items out of the box, he hunted for two things. His hand found one. It was a giant black metal flashlight. He pulled it out, twisted the cap, sighing as the room illuminated from the narrow beam. He angled it into the box, and grabbed the shotgun shells. He turned, spied the large chest that sat at the end of his bed. Placing the shells on the bed, he fumbled with his keys. Finding the key, he turned the lock on the chest. Flipping it open, the shotgun revealed itself instantly.
Tossing the light on the bed, he opened the box of shells, picked up the shotgun and quickly inserted five shells into the shotgun. He shoved five more shells into his pocket. Satisfied, he flung the shotgun over his right shoulder, wincing slightly, picked up the flashlight and turned to the door of the room.
“Okay you sons of bitches,” he said, almost maniacally. “Here I come!”
He marched into the hall and rounded the stairs to the third floor. Steve looked up and saw the beady eyes glaring at him, almost like they were laughing. He lowered the weapon and aimed up the flight of stairs. He swore he heard a high squealing.
“Oh Shit.” He was losing it. He shook his head, holding the gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other. He flashed the beam up the stairs, stopping at the shredded top. Nothing. No blood. He missed the bastard. The clicking and scurry continued. He jogged up the stairs and turned.
The light caught a few little creatures; Leprechauns came to mind, vanishing up another set of stairs. This flight went up the tower, coming out on the Widow’s Walk. Steve moved to the door, cautiously opened it, and quickly scanned the narrow staircase. He saw nothing, but heard the damn critter scamper out of the light. The upper door must have been open, as wind and rain struck him in the face when he entered the slender tower stairs.
The storm hit him with all its might as he exited the tower. There was a walk along the roof and around the tower and menacing wrought iron railing traversed both sides of what was commonly referred to as the Widow’s Walk. The gothic design held the vertical bars with the devastating pointed tips. He looked down the walkway that ran across the top of the roof.