The Fourth Night
He woke up the next morning still on the floor; the sour scent of his own vomit soaked into the carpet next to him. Sharp spikes of pain ran up and down his leg, but he fought through it and forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled to the bed. He used the bed to brace himself, and was relieved he could stand without too much trouble. It hurt, but he could do it. He flopped onto the bed, and laid face down for a while. Confused, aching, miserable, alone.
He needed to get out of here. He should have trusted his gut before and just left. There was no explanation for what he saw, and nothing he could do. He got back up and slowly started gathering his things into his backpack. His body was heavy like lead, and his heart heavier. He downed a bottle of water he'd left in the room, washing away the dry stickiness of his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the empty bottle crinkled into his hand.
Taking the cane with him when he left, both for safety and for its intended purpose, he made his way through the cursed house. It almost didn't cross his mind to pick up his phone at the end of the hall, but he caught it out of the corner of his eye, and remembered it had been recording. He snatched it up and quickly played back the video.
It was blank.
The video was completely black, no video, no audio. Nothing. He sighed and put the phone in his pocket. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Maybe just something to let him know he wasn't going mad. He continued his slow walk down stairs and out of the house, stopping just for a moment to look up at the gargoyle overhead. It stood unmoving.
"Good luck with whatever the hell this place is." He said, feeling a bit silly talking to a rock. He finally walked away from the manor and followed the side of the road in the direction he had first come.
The sun warmed his skin and a soft breeze through his hair started to perk him up a bit. His leg still hurt like hell, but he was out, and on his way. He repeated the French phrases in his head to ask for a ride, and after 20 minutes of walking he saw his first car.
"Hey!" He screamed at the little green vehicle as it passed, waving his free hand. "I need help!"
The car pulled to a stop not far ahead of him, and he could have cried from the relief he felt. He speed walked to the driver side window, ready to try and explain himself, but he cut himself short.
The car was empty.
There was no driver, no passengers. Just an empty green car sitting on the side of the road. He stared at it for a long while, too frightened to move.
"What the hell?" He said softly to himself.
There was a click and the door of the car flung open, and he jumped back screaming and stumbled away. He kept moving forward along the road, and checking back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed but the little green car was gone. Another car was coming from in front of him, this one red, and he raised his arm only to realize, it had no driver either. He panicked and ran into the trees, away from the road. He looked up at the sun and tried to follow in the same direction as the road, just far enough away from it that he hoped he couldn't be seen.
The air seemed to be getting heavier and a horrible thought occurred to him. Maybe it wasn't the house. Maybe it was this place. Originally the shadows had been outside the manor, and come in the night after. The coverings on the windows were making more sense, and he wondered how long his grandfather had been living in that manor, hiding from what was outside. Had Timothy in fact, been the one to let them in?
He told himself to keep moving, that he just had to keep going. The rocks and roots and rolling of the land slowed him down, but his fear wouldn't allow him to stop. Just when he started to feel a glimpse of hope in his chest, he burst from out of the trees and the brush, and found himself at the driveway of the manor.
"What?" He said, staring dumbfounded at the front steps. "WHAT!?"
He had been walking in the opposite direction. It was impossible for him to be there.
"FUCK." He screamed, slamming his fist into the closest tree. The bite of the bark in his knuckles, and the ache in his leg clouded his head and he just kept punching. He stood under the tree, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath when the exhaustion finally set in. Utterly defeated, he went back into the manor. The trudge up the stairs seemed much more tedious than before and once again he found himself collapsing on his grandfather's bed.
He just laid there, body shaking but silent until the sun started to go down. He tried to clear his head, to focus on what needed to be done. He moved the box of food from downstairs up to the master bedroom, drapes were pulled back out from the linen closet and nailed over all the bedroom windows, and the doors and windows were locked tight. In an act of what was perhaps stupid desperation, he pushed the large wardrobe in front of the door. He wasn't sure it would help but it made him feel more secure.
He didn't leave the room all night, or the next day.
Part 5: https://mangothoughtswritingblog.blogspot.com/2024/01/mini-series-seven-nights-5.html
