I can't believe I'm about to do this, but...
My short story. In 1,965 words.

I'm sorry I broke the rules. I'll put it in a reply so it doesn't break the board.

I hope you enjoy it.

EDIT: Feedback will be greatly accepted. I think my sentences are a bit stilted sometimes. It was a stream of consciousness, and I've never tried to write a spooky tale before. I'm not sure about it.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:04, 9 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

The Dark House
It was approaching one o’clock in the morning as I turned the car in to the long driveway. The moon hung low, illuminating fast moving clouds as they scudded their way across the sky. The gateway, lit only by the light of the moon, loomed up in the distance, the imposing house behind it. I drew the car to a halt, and stepped out in to the cold night air. It had been long, too long in fact, since I had been here. Pulling my coat around myself, I approached the gate. Laying my hand on the cool metal of the catch, I looked up to the house that had for so long haunted my dreams.

These days, though, I was finding it harder and harder to distinguish my dreams from reality.

I could see from here that, even in its state of advanced disrepair, the large windows to the front of the house were still intact. The spires that adorned the four corners of the property were shedding their tiles, exposing the wood work beneath them. Some of the ancient stonework was coming away, and the once proud entrance door hung loosely from its cast iron hinges. The gardens, once a shocking assault on the senses in colour, variety and smell, now lay overgrown and dull, the weeds strangling out whatever beauty still remained here. I realised that I had been holding my breath and that my heart was beating hard in my chest. Slowly, I breathed out, seeing the warmth of my breath turning in to mist. Gripping the handle of the spring latch, I pulled the gate backwards. I stood, no barrier now between me and the house before me. The wind whipped my coat around me as I turned back for the car. Starting the engine again, I drove up the driveway and parked at the front of the house.

I had thought before that my heart could not beat any harder. Now I felt that it would surely break through my chest. The sound of blood rushing through my veins near deafened me, and my knuckles were pale white where I was gripping the steering wheel so hard. I knew that getting out of the car would be the hardest thing I would ever have to do. I steeled my nerve, and opened the door. Stepping out of the car, I could hear the voice of the wind whispering through the trees and the scurrying of mice from the inside of the house.

I reached out. Even though the door hung from its hinges, it had rusted solid at the points of contact. I pulled hard, and the door eventually came away. Stepping over the threshold, I was hit by the unmistakeable smell of damp, musk and decay. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, and covered my mouth and nose with it. Moving further in to the hallway, I saw that the glass cases holding so many animals were still in place, the heads of many beasts of all sizes staring at me with their cold marble eyes. I nearly tricked myself in to believing they were alive, and for a moment I considered running. The hall opened in to a large reception room, the walls lined with books. It had now been many years since any of these books had been read, and yet they seemed to call out to me, to touch their spines, to riffle through their pages, to read their words. I have always found books to be needful things - one should always be careful of what one reads, lest the words take control of one’s brain. I knew only too well the power of words. Indeed, they had been used against me before, long ago. But I was a different man then. Weaker. More prone to suggestion.

Reaching in to my jacket, I felt the reassuring touch of cold gun metal. It was laughable I’d even bought the old thing, it wouldn’t be able to protect me here, but I held on to it nonetheless. The books were now screaming for my attention, but I blocked them out and carried on through the reception room in to the dining hall. A long, low table sat directly in the middle of the room, still set as if for dinner. One side of the room was adorned with paintings of old men and women, some looking proud, some forlorn, some disfigured and alone. The ends of the room both contained huge fireplaces, and the opposite wall had large, mullioned windows at which hung what had once been glorious curtains, now moth-eaten and ragged. They moved in the breeze, casting long shadows in to the room. I walked up to the windows, and looked out in to the rolling garden that had once been so impressive. She had been here, I thought. She had been happy once, too.
I opened the window and climbed through, dropping gently on to the floor below. I now walked around the side of the house, until I came to a set of steps that lead down in to the garden. Descending them, I felt my breath catch in my throat, the night really was very cold – or perhaps I was just taken by fear. I walked slowly along the avenue between tall trees, towards the gazebo that sat at the end. Reaching it, I sat, and held my head in my hands. My hair hung over my face. I was tired, too tired for this. I was too tired to fight anyone any more. And it seemed so recently that I had been full of life.

“And yet you still come here?” A woman’s voice. Her voice. Impossible. She had been dead these long years. I looked up. She stood in front of me, wearing the clothes she had on when I saw her last. Her face was pale, her eyes were bright. She was the woman that I remembered.

“Yes. I come to see if I can remember you. Every day your face becomes a little fainter in my mind, no matter how much I try to hold on to it. And I curse myself for that.”

Her hand reached out for my face. It was cold and, I realised, transparent. It stopped just short of my skin. “You mustn’t,” she said “we all forget, in time.”

“Not me. I can never forget. I can never forget what was taken from me by force.”

“Such anger.” Her voice wavered, it seemed as though it came from a different source, as if it was slightly out of time with her lips. “And yet, you still remind yourself? Why not just let me go?”

“I can’t.” I whispered. “I can’t. Not until I find out why.”

I felt a cold sensation on my hand. Looking up again, I saw a horrific sight. It was still her, but her dress was covered in sticky, congealed blood. Her hands were thin as bone, her skin stretched tight over her fingers. She had a blue-grey tinge of colour, and she stank of death. Across her neck ran a huge, gruesome cut; ragged, as though cut by a bread knife, exposing red and bloody flesh. Her entire body was punctured by deep gouges, as though she had been repeatedly stabbed. And her eyes, oh, how blank and dead her eyes were. Her jaw hung slack, and this time when she spoke it did not move.

“Can you let me go now?” Her voice was sweet compared to sight before me, and yet there was a rattle in its sound. “Can you remember this body?”

Anger welled up inside me. “Why do you do this?” I screamed. “Why do you torment me with this vision? All I have done, all I will ever do, is try to find out what happened to you. I have fought to come here, to remind myself of what once was and you,” I paused for breath “seek to frighten me with tricks and illusions.”

“No trick,” she replied, her voice neutral “no illusion. I do this as I must not be in this world any more. I must not be near you any longer. I am sorry.”

I looked at her, tears streaming down my face. She faded, withdrew from vision, until she was no more than a shadow, then until she was no more than a memory. I slumped, dejected. On the grass in front of me, I saw something glint. I knelt on my hands and knees and picked it up. I held in my hand a breadknife, around 9 inches long, and brown with dried blood. I put it inside my pocket, convinced this was a clue to who had murdered the one person I had ever loved.

I walked back to the house, around the side, and back to the car. Firing up the engine, I drove home to my rooms in Holborn. Climbing the stairs, I felt the knife prick at my legs. I opened the door, and made my way to the kitchen. Pouring myself a large whisky, I removed the knife and placed it on the side.

Strange. The knife seemed somehow... Similar. The handle was of moulded steel, and was embossed with two letters, ‘DF’. My initials. I opened a drawer, and pulled out a small paring knife. It was of the same steel, the same moulded handle, and the same embossed initials. I dropped the knife, and collapsed to the ground.

In that instant, everything I had forgotten came rushing back to me. The straps. The clamps they used to prise my eyes open. The beatings. And... the words. Oh, God, the words they forced in to my head. Words of violence, of pain, of slaughter. Words of fear, of hate, of tragedy. Words that whispered inside my mind, conspiring against my very ability to think. I remembered lying in the darkness, with nothing but the words talking to me. I remembered the visitations from the dark man, telling me that I must end a life for the good of the people. I asked why, he told me that this life had so much power, so much influence, that she could topple the whole order of society. The words agreed, they whispered that she should be snuffed out, and they promised me that once she was gone, then they would be too, and I would not remember.

I saw then, in my mind’s eye, the moment of her death. The sweat that dripped from my nose as I plunged the knife in to her. The gargle she made as I drew open her throat. Then light in her eyes dying as I kissed her goodbye. And the words. The words congratulating me on a job completed.

I sat there on the floor of my kitchen, drenched in sweat. And then, the words returned.

“You were never meant to remember,” they said “you could remember us, and the work you did, but never this.”

I felt as if I was choking on my own tongue. “Then why let me?” I managed “Why even leave a trace?”

“Because... you were too... strong. Your mind rallied against what we have done for you.”

“For me?” I laughed “You instruct me to kill my wife and it was for my benefit?”

I reached in to my jacket and pulled out the gun. It felt heavy and comforting in my hands.

“What are you doing?” said the words.

“I am making amends. I am setting things straight.”

“Wait! We have so much more to give.”

“And I,” said I, as I pressed the gun to my head “have so much left to lose.”

I pulled the trigger.

The rest? The rest was darkness. And a voice.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:06, Reply)

Blimey!
Very good, DiT! I love the Poe-like moments in there.
( thealternativefact, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:10, Reply)

Oooh, very dark
I liked your last sentence, leaving it open for a further instalment and all that.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:37, Reply)

Right...
Now go away and pare it down to 500 words, and you'll have a good little story!!

Not sure how serious everyone is about this, but I would strongly recommend working in 'Word', printing off, and editing with a pen before re-drafting EVERY TIME.

Little e.g. about half way through after "I felt a cold sensation..." you don't need to write: "I saw a horrific sight" - just describe what you saw.

Finally, my English teacher would say at the end: "And how did you write this story after blowing your brains out?" but that's the pedant in me.

Keep it up - and do feel free to rip into my story. Oh yes - you could save a few words by using "into" and "onto" as well.

[help yourself to a kitten from the jar on the windowsill]
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 14:42, Reply)

Ah...
I knew you'd say that about the death thing, but there is a reason for it (like HLT said).

I don't know if I could cut 1,400 words out of it though. Maybe I'll try another one...

Thanks for the feedback though!
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 15:03, Reply)

Good story
I agree with everything Che has said.

You can cut out loads of words by not 'telling' us thing - like 'I saw' and so on. Instead, 'show' us them....put us in your head and that way we see the action through your eyes.

I'd also add that if you want to build up tension - I'm thinking of the bit where she changes from beautiful to horrific - short quick sentences can do that.

Don't forget to use all five senses too - tell us what things looked like, yes, but also all the other senses so we really feel like we're there.

Oh, and one last thing...if you feel at the moment you couldn't possibly cut any of it out, then save it in a folder and leave it for a little while - days, weeks, or if necessary, months. Then get it out when you've got enough distance from it...it'll be far easier to redraft then.

And once you've done that, consider submitting it to somewhere like www.eastoftheweb.com - it's a very highly regarded short story site and I personally know of at least one writer who was picked up by an agent because of the site...she's onto her third novel now and has a PhD in creative writing under her belt.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 15:10, Reply)

Thanks!
Thanks to both of you (chickelnlady, che) for the advice... I think I'll sit on this one for a while. Didn't really think about it, I just wrote it, so I'm going to go away from it and see where in takes me in a week or so...
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 15:30, Reply)

I can't really add much to what Che & Mme Poulet have said
but the thing of putting it away for a while and coming back to it is always a great one. I've done this with short stories before, where I've become completely stuck or lost interest. It almost always help breathe new life into it.

Also, don't try to write when you've got the remnants of a night of Havana Club running through your head, and only 4 hours sleep to fight it with... I learnt that today.

EDIT: Very rude of me... good story, well written.
( Moey, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 16:04, Reply)

Goosebumps
it's boiling hot here still, but I still got goosebumps reading that. Very nice work DiT
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Thu 3 Jul 2008, 20:08, Reply)