Possession

This is a short story I wrote that I might include in an upcoming book by Mark Johnson and myself. It has yet to be formatted.

People told me that something must have been wrong; no one rents out a house such as this one for the amount of money I was paying, not without reason. Somewhere deep inside my gut feeling told me they were right.

It was an original Georgian House fully fitted out with all the luxurious furniture included and in a prominent part of London. Crazy or not, I could not resist. I quickly had my bags packed and ready to move in. I was mixing in different circles, what with my business now being a success -- this house had all I needed. I could see myself entertaining people at dinner parties; it was close to the shops, my office and coffee bars.

Looking back on that first night should have been a warning to me. But I thought it was all in my imagination. It turned out instead that this night was the beginning of the nightmare that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

The house was cold, and there was a feeling of evil in the air. I tried to ignore it as I sat at the big ornate oak table that was the centrepiece of the dining room. I felt nervous; there was something wrong, a sensation of being watched filled me. I tried to eat my meagre meal of beans on toast, but nausea began to take me over, and I felt sick. I was frightened and lonely.

The crash behind my chair made me turn as the large watercolour that hung over the marble fireplace had fallen and hit the hearth, breaking the glass. I reached to lift it and was stunned to see lacerations. -- ripped as if claw marks had slit the picture from top to bottom.

If my fear of this house had been on a scale of ten before now, it had trebled. I tried to overcome my emotions with a glass of wine; the perfect accompaniment to beans on toast. That night I retired early, the moving had drained me, and my back hurt from lifting heavy boxes. Sleep came fast but not for long. I felt uneasy, that feeling of being watched as if something was hiding in the darkest corners of the room. All night long I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep I would wake to the same feeling of not being alone. Then it happened, I once again drifted into sleep only to be awakened gasping for air, invisible hands were restricting my throat.

For the next couple of days, there was nothing amiss in the house. Then, without warning, it all kicked off. The atmosphere in the home changed, becoming cold and gloomy again. The whole place felt sad, to the point where I struggled with a tremendous feeling of depression. Items would go missing and turn up in the strangest places. Taps in the three bathrooms would all turn on at the same time. One of the bathrooms, in particular, felt more depressing than the other two. It was in this bathroom I would hear strange banging sounds. Towels and other objects would be found on the floor when moments before they had been in their places.

Things came to a crescendo when one morning, on entering the dining room, I found all of the chairs turned upside down, and there were pools of water on the floor. There was no sign of where it could have come from -- an anomaly that was beyond my comprehension.

I had to find out what was causing this. Hearing the sound of footsteps above me as if running across the ceiling began to make me think that there was someone in the house. In that instance, I started to feel hot and clammy; and the atmosphere was chokingly thick. It felt again as if there were hands around my throat…squeezing.

That was it; I had to know! Shaking off the fear, I would now search the house from top to bottom. I climbed the ornate sweeping staircase that led me upstairs and along the landing towards the bathroom that had previously shown activity. I became overcome with a negative feeling; with the room having an electrical charge to it. While I stood there, I could hear footsteps walk across the floor. It occurred right in front of me, and as I listened, a tap unexpectedly turned itself on. Suddenly, a flannel appeared to project itself across the room, just missing the back of my head. I sat on the side of the bath and began to shake. I was startled out of my thoughts by a disembodied voice screaming out loud the word “NO!" I could feel the terror that was being carried with it as she appeared by the window. She was clear, solid looking, a beautiful young girl with brunette hair. Her face and hair were dripping wet, and the sad look she gave me will stay with me always. I realised after all the negative feelings that I had experienced in the house; she was not evil, it was her way to get attention, and eventually would lead to the help she needed. Within moments, she disappeared.

For that brief moment we had connected, I knew she had been beaten and maybe drowned in the bath, fully clothed. She was sad as she felt she had brought it on herself. She blamed herself for all the hurt she had caused her family. The guilt she held onto prevented her from crossing over.

I decided to do a bit of research and reached for my laptop. I didn’t expect to find anything in my search and was quite surprised when I came across an old newspaper article reporting a murder.

Rosemary was 18 years old and the daughter of the title-holder of the house in the 1930s. She was a socialite; the bell of the ball so to speak. A bit of a rebel for her day, Rosemary was never short of admirers, and on occasion, she may have had led them on, teasing them with false hopes.

The night of her premature death, Rosemary was at a dance along with her family, and a young man who accompanied her. It appeared that they had an argument, and Rosemary decided to leave and go home alone. What happened after Rosemary left the dance, no one knows? Police believed that someone she knew was waiting for her to come back. The attacker somehow gained access into the house. In the bathroom, there were signs of a struggle, and the police statements indicated that Rosemary died there by strangulation. They thought that the murderer might have panicked and tried to revive her by throwing water over her in the hope that she had just passed out through lack of oxygen.

Sadly, Rosemary's murderer escaped capture, and thus, nobody was brought to trial.

You would think that would be the end of my story, but it is just the beginning.

That night as I thought about Rosemary’s story, a strange silence seemed to fill the house. It felt devoid of life; no longer a home, just a shell. My head felt heavy as if something was trying to control me. Whatever this was; it was evil with a capital E! At 10 pm, I retired to bed with the hope that I would get a good night’s sleep -- boy was I wrong!

I lay there thinking of how I would tackle this problem, and within moments, I could see light anomalies moving around the room. Already in a cold place, the temperature seemed to drop even further. There was no way the lights were coming from the road outside as the heavy curtains blocked any from coming in. These lights appeared in the total darkness of the room. Suddenly, a banging noise started up from downstairs. It’s known that old houses settle at night and make strange noises, but this was as if someone had a hammer and was breaking up the walls downstairs. I came out of my room and made my way downstairs to where it seemed the noise had sounded. Just as I entered the room just off the kitchen, the noise stopped. But there was something else in the air far worse in my estimation; sulphur. The smell eventually dissipated, but before I returned to bed, I made up my mind to have one last look around the home. Starting again at the bottom floor, I made my way to the top of the stairs. Still, it felt as if something in the house was watching me.

In the olden days, the rooms at the upper part of the house had been the servants’ quarters. It was in one of these rooms that I again smelt a faint whiff of Sulphur. Something flashed past me, too fast to see with the naked eye. The sensation was icy cold. I felt as if every hair on my body stood up on end; evil hung in the air. It was then that a dark shadow appeared in the room. It quickly became a growing mass; it was not any recognisable form known to man. The black mass was not on the wall; it was in the centre of the room! The air was swirling. This thing radiated evil, so much so that it made me want to gag, I should have turned and run at that point, but somehow I could not move, now frozen to the spot fixated on the diabolic image that remained in front of me. The smell was back and increased in intensity, and my throat and nostrils were burning. I felt its energy as if it was trying to latch on to me. I moved back against the wall, and I admit that I was afraid. It was evident to me that it was attempting to drain my energy. It locked on to me, and it became a battle of wills. I called on everything I had, shouting my prayers at the top of my voice. The pain in my head was excruciating. At one point, I felt as if I was leaving my body, and it took all my willpower to stay grounded.

It’s impossible to put into words just how I felt at this time. The evil emanated from this demonic thing and penetrated deep into my very bones. I felt so faint and weak that I feared this was it for me, I cannot win. I knew this was what it wanted, to destroy my faith and willpower, to kill me. I could not believe my eyes what I saw now. It was morphing into many grotesque faces with eyes burning into the very soul of anyone able to see. One after the other, it seemed to take shape, and as each face appeared, the thing lunged at me. Upon each lunge, I strengthened the invisible barrier I had now mentally created between it and myself. After the last lunge I rubbed my eyes, and again it looked like a black mass.

I cannot tell you what happened next -- did the thing possess me? Did it take me to hell? I don’t know.

But now my nights and days are always with it. In the weeks that followed, thoughts of this evil filled my every waking moment and haunted my dreams. Each day I sit here in the sunroom with my watercolors and paint the same dark image over and over. The other patients don’t seem to mind; they are busy battling their own demons. My doctor keeps trying to convince me that it’s only in my mind, but my friend whispers in my ear, and I know the truth no matter how much medication they give me.

It is with me, and it always will be.

I am his.

Written by Irene Allen-Block.

Image by Kellepics Pixabay free downloads.

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