Fear

• Charlotte Vicary, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2009

A cold shiver crept own my back as I surveyed my surroundings. The was no apparent light fixture o the peeling walls, but dusty metal brackets housed the stubs of candles that must once have shed flickering light on the room and all its horrors. I could make out a dark green velvet curtain hanging heavily against the wall over what might have been a window, though no light crept into the dark, shadowy room. An eerie noise sounded behind me, like the howling of a tortured spirit, and I spun on my heel to face the opposite wall. I could make out an old staircase blackened and cracked with age, but all was deathly still, and though the air was thick with the scent of decay, it was not disturbed by the slightest breath of wind. Summoning what little courage I had left, I placed one foot on the first step, trying to ignore the ghosts that flickered at the edge of my vision, but did not appear when I turned my head. The staircase emitted an unearthly creak, but my foot seemed glued in its place and I found myself taking another step. At the top of the first flight, I could dimly see a series of portraits hanging on the wall, coated in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. I placed my hand on the filthy railing, and a sweat broke out on my forehead as I felt my fingers sink through dust before coming to a rest on the rough, splintered wood of the banister. As I got closer, I could make out more and more of the house's sinister detail. The portraits were smeared and decaying, and their occupants looked grim and threatening. One that drew my eyes was a very realistic image of a young man in a heavy black armchair, with a tortured expression that seemed to drag me down to new depths of fear. I glanced back down into the dark room below. In one corner sat the armchair from the picture, mildewed and musty, reeking of age and decomposition. But it was what sat in the chair that drew my horrified attention...