Trapped Within

by Bradshaw, Duncan P.

  A certain level of friction existed, and he found it uncomfortable to talk about his boyfriend. It was clearly best left unspoken, which eventually drove a wedge between them. Unable to truly relax around his parents, he found the relationship difficult to maintain, finding excuses not to visit, until, over time, he saw them only at Christmas.

  His Grandma on the other hand seemed oblivious to it all. It was unclear if she had actually understood what they’d told her. To her ‘gay’ meant happy. Queer meant strange. They didn’t want to labour the point, especially his parents, and so the conversation was left with an air of uncertainty as to whether Grandma Flo had truly grasped what was being conveyed.

  The world changes, he mused. Language changes. Back when he started out at drama school the term actress was a common saying, but slowly it had died off; an unnecessary gender division.

  In today’s theatrical world a performer was simply called an actor, regardless of sex.

  Grandma could go on believing he was happy. On the whole, she’d be right.

  Walking into the sitting room, Darren took a seat in a stiff-backed armchair, and played with his phone as he patiently waited for the solicitor to arrive.

  What was in the will? Would there be anything for him?

  Being the only grandchild, Darren was sure of some inheritance.

  He wouldn’t be here for any other reason.

  As the minutes became an hour he grew bored of his friend’s tedious status updates and found his gaze drawn to the wall to his left, full of framed photographs. Standing up to get a better view, he admired the portraits and scenes; the split-second moments from his family’s history spanning three generations. He saw a photograph of his Grandma, maybe as old as he was now. They had the same eyes. The same cheeky smile. And, judging by her lavish headscarf, the same taste for flamboyant fashion; certainly the elaborate pendant around her neck was an elegant design of geometrical craftsmanship. Above her portrait was a picture of his parents stood outside a church; his mother dressed in the finest white wedding-gown and his father looking like the happiest man on earth as the pair posed in front of the monasteries congregation of choral monks.

  Beside that picture was a photograph of him as a child; a face full of youthful exuberance and joy. His hair was light blonde and ruffled by the gentle wind that blew across the beach. With a spade in hand he stood beside a half-fallen sandcastle, pleased with his handiwork and eager to show it off to his proud parents.

  Standswick Sands… he muttered, remembering his childhood holidays at the caravan park on the coast.

  The windows began to rattle, bringing him from his recollection, as a train hurtled by on the nearby tracks, passing through the local station. It was a sound and sensation he’d forgotten, but now he was experiencing them again, it was something that was intrinsically linked to his Grandma; to this house. Like banana sandwiches and staying up late to watch horror films on a Friday night.

  He smiled. He used to love visiting his Grandma. That was until he first ventured into that room.

  The vibrations began to gently fade as the train passed by. Of course it was the train’s doing, but back when he was seven he would have blamed something else…

  Where was that solicitor? She said two o’clock. It was now nearly four.

  His mind latched onto the adult world. To a world of rules and legality. Grown up things. But it did no good. With every rattle of a window, every clunk from the heating, every shriek from a passing bird, he felt his thoughts being pulled back to the nightmares of his youth.

  A bang sounded from upstairs again. This time so loud it made him jump.

  It was the pipes.

  And again.

  The pipes.

  And again.

  Fluctuations in temperature causes molecules to alter speed resulting in changes in density. As the density changes, the objects adjust in size, banging against each other as they settle against their surroundings.

  And again.

  Enough!

  This was ridiculous. Darren tried his best to fight the creeping dread that clawed up his spine and made his shoulders stiffen. He could no longer fight the memories. He had to prove to himself that these dark fantasies he’d tried his best to bury did not exist in the adult world. He had to confront them.

  Walking back up the stairs he felt a chill creep over him. Attempting to ignore its influence, he looked across the hallway and stared at the door, daring for it to do something, to prove the impossible; to show him that all those nightmares he’d suffered, those visions he swore for years were true, did exist.

  Of course they didn’t.

  But they’d seemed so damn real.

  It had all started one evening when high winds blew a storm across the country. He was seven years old and staying at his Grandma’s that day. With the worsening weather causing floods and upturning trees, his parents were unable to collect him, meaning he’d have to sleep over. The prospect wasn’t terrible; in fact it was one he was overjoyed to hear at the time. Told to run upstairs and fetch his Grandma’s reading glasses from her bedroom whilst she spoke to his parents on the phone, Darren was lost in a daydream about dinosaurs when he realised he’d turned the handle of the wrong door.

  Stepping back for a moment, he scratched his head. This door was normally locked, but the excitement of new discoveries overcame his trepidation of the unknown. A strange smell, overpowering yet intoxicating, ignited his nostrils.

  What was that?

  As the door eased open, he saw long shadows fill the room. They moved and writhed in the darkest corners, curling together like a pit of snakes. Darren stepped forward, trying to make sense of this vision. He struggled to see outlines, as black on black, a twisting figure with long spindly limbs reached across the room and aimed its claws towards his soft, delicate flesh.

  The boy was rooted to the spot as he glimpsed a row of teeth, exposed by a grimace; a mixture of hunger and desire. Eyes flickered in the dark, long and narrow, with shifting cat-like slits that scanned the child’s form. Darren’s skin peppered with goose bumps as the air turned arctic. His own eyes widened, but the form remained nothing more than a murky impression within the dwindling light; its presence growing ever closer to its prey.

  “Darren Benjamin Prince!” his Grandma shouted, scolding him with wrath unwitnessed until that moment. “Come away from there this instant.”

  Turning, he saw his Grandma, already behind him and pulling him from the room, slamming the door shut and twisting the key in the lock.

  “Stay out of the Darkling room, Darren,” she continued as she led him back down the stairs. “It’s dangerous in there.”

  The Darkling room.

  The Darkling room.

  The Darkling.

  What was the Darkling?

  Of course years later he finally understood what she meant. Darkling was an old term to mean something growing darker. A word that had fallen out of fashion with the changing times, like the word actress, or gay meaning happy.

  She must have been concerned that he’d hurt himself in an unfamiliar environment and the light rapidly fading. But to seven-year-old him it perfectly described the vision he’d witnessed; the shadowy wisp that spilled across the room with an eagerness to feast on his meat.

  This recollection had haunted him ever since, and he’d found himself replaying it over and over again, trying to make sense of what he’d seen.

  Did he really see a monster?

  Of course not?

  He had a wild imagination, and always carried a sensitive soul. The discovery of the strange room and the sudden unusual outburst of his Grandma must have coloured his memory, painting it with the imagery of those Hammer horror films she used to let him watch. The more he thought about it the more ghoulish the nightmare became.

  And that was all it was.

  A nightmare.

  A fantasy brought about by an overactive imagination.

  However, the tendrils of that event defied
all reason and continued to grip at his thoughts, refusing to unravel and release its stranglehold. Darren was traumatised. After that night, he hated going upstairs in his Grandma’s house, nervously creeping up the steps only to run back down as quickly as he could, picking up speed as he ran past the door to the Darkling room and refusing to even glance at its scratched surface.

  Even when sitting in the relative safety of her living room, he’d be able to hear banging through the ceiling. Turning the television up did nothing to mask the noise and only served to annoy his parents.

  The banging became screams, and eventually he caused so much fuss he never visited his Grandma’s house again.

  Until today.

  For the last seventeen years, that night and its aftermath had never been far from his mind. Over the years, the memories had faded, dulled and been confined to the fantastical imagination of a scared little boy. But without any answers, without any rational explanation, he could never truly let it go.

  What had he seen?

  What were those noises?

  Why did no one else react to the loud thumps and terrifying shrieks that shook the house?

  Oh, it’s the just wind, they used to say. But their explanations did not satisfy their sceptical son.

  What was in that room?

  Another train hurtled by, reminding him of the world outside these walls. A world which he understood. Of engines and timetables, of bank accounts and taxes, of parking tickets and takeaway coffee.

  He knew better now. The rattling of the windows, the doors shaking in their frames, these were the sources of the banging. The screeching of the brakes as an old train pulled into the station. This was the cause of the screams he’d heard.

  Darren understood all this, but it still took a great effort to move his legs across the landing; still he felt his palms moisten with sweat; still he felt himself grow dizzy as he approached the hated doorway.

  Tracing his fingers over the scratched grooves, he tried to focus on a distant memory, a time when he was even younger, maybe four.

  A cat. He remembered a cat.

  Grandma’s cat.

  Willow.

  Black, with pure green eyes. It must have caused this damage.

  Darren touched the cold metal of the key and went to twist it, only to find it already fully turned. It was unlocked, just like that fateful night.

  His heart raced, thumping against his rib cage and filling his ears with the rhythmic sprint of his erratic pulse. Swallowing back the fear that dried his throat, Darren once again recounted the logic that he desperately needed to galvanise his resolve; to drive him forward to this confrontation.

  The train.

  The screeching of the brakes.

  The cat.

  The fear.

  All just fear.

  Holding his breath, as if in preparation for an impact, Darren pulled the handle. The mechanism turned, its click echoing around the landing, and slowly he opened the door.

  The room was long with wooden floorboards, exposed from the lack of carpet, but not smoothed or varnished, but flecked with paint, with remnants of underlay stuck to the panels and carpet tacks still embedded and crudely bent.

  Aged and crumbled cardboard boxes were stacked in towers, obscuring the back of the room, and tall wardrobes lined the walls, their doors open a crack, allowing a menacing line of black to border each one.

  Darren flicked the light switch, but no illumination spilled from the blown bulb, allowing the continual creep of darkness as the evening drew in. His limbs grew light as he stepped through the doorway and adrenalin flooded his body. The shadows behind the towers of boxes lay motionless, but throbbed with intention as he tried his best to stare them down.

  Heading deeper into the room, he scanned all around, looking for a threat, waiting for the darkness to creep towards him like it had done all those years ago.

  As the room remained still, Darren’s confidence increased.

  Stopping at the first wardrobe, he glanced over its ornate carvings of lattice weaves and four-legged beasts. Slowly opening the door, he breathed a sigh of relief when he discovered its contents to be free from would-be attackers. His interest held by the lavish clothes that hung from wooden hangers, he began to look through them; ball gowns of the finest silk and feathered hats with plumage so striking he knew not of any bird that could carry such exotic markings. Noticing something by his knees, Darren crouched down, and pulled out a large package wrapped in cloth. Removing the outer layer, he revealed an intricate portrait of a beautiful young woman. The twinkle in her eye and delightful smile reminded him of the photograph he had studied downstairs. A warmth radiated through him as he realised he was gazing upon the image of Grandma Flo in her youth. How beautiful she was and how adored she must have been by the artist. Every brushstroke was an act of worship, hailing the perfection of the painting’s subject; and how exquisite she was! Darren stood back to admire the portrait from afar, noticing the same elegant pendant, looking even more stunning with the vibrancy of colour captured by the artist’s palette.

  The light dimmed further as the evening lay claim to the world outside. His vision struggled with the fading light, but as he turned and looked around the room he saw it with new eyes. His terror had subsided, been replaced with an affection for the elder relation he hadn’t felt since he was a small child.

  No wonder his Grandma had been so angry with him. She must have been afraid. Afraid he’d hurt himself and in the process break some valuable artefact from her mysterious but glamorous past. The boxes were stacked in precarious piles, the floor littered with the sharp protrusion of carpet tacks, the wardrobes overloaded and wobbling on their age-warped bases.

  With the fading light, this place was a minefield of hazards for a small boy, clumsy with inexperience and a desire to explore. This Darkling room could certainly be dangerous.

  A smile spread across his face. Her actions had not been born out of anger, but of love.

  Darren closed his eyes and opened his arms, allowing the world of this room to be at one with him. He sent forgiveness into the ether and hoped that the spirit of his Grandma, if such a thing existed, might sense his penance and grant him pardon.

  What a wonderful woman, he thought, marvelled by her old clothes and curious of the life she had once lived. Why didn’t I get to know her?

  The light was little more than a silvery sheen through the window when a train thundered past. Only this time it sounded clearer. Closer.

  “Darren,” a faint voice called out.

  Shocked by the barely perceptible sound, Darren stumbled backwards, knocking into a stack of boxes and sending them crashing to the ground. He followed suit and hit the floor, sending dust flying into the air.

  Attempting to climb back to his feet he reached out, grabbing hold of a box flap and accidentally opening it, spilling the contents across the floor. A velvet robe fell across his chest, unfolding to reveal a bag of chalk pieces, a set of candlesticks, and a wooden board.

  Scrambling to his feet, he caught sight of the board, recognising the shape of his Grandma’s pendant carefully etched in to it.

  “Darren,” the voice called again, much louder.

  He looked across the room, but was rooted to the spot through fear and confusion.

  The darkness began to bend and warp, to writhe over itself as a bloodied hand emerged from the shadows.

  “Darren,” the voice called once more, this time with a resonance that chilled his blood.

  A woman’s face appeared from the gloom. Her eyes were wide with terror and blood smeared her cheek.

  “Mr Prince. Please. Help me.”

  Darren held his head in disbelief.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sarah Miller,” she wheezed, too scared to talk at any volume. “I’m Mrs Hannam’s solicitor.”

  The solicitor?

  Had she been up here the whole time?

  Had the banging above him not been the heating
after all, but the solicitor all along?

  She crawled towards him, pulling herself along with one hand whilst the other arm hung uselessly by her side. Blood poured from her suit jacket, suggesting a grisly injury, and as her face became clearer he noticed a six-inch gash running down her cheek.

  “What happened?” he asked, rushing towards her.

  “I came here to meet you and your parents,” she half whispered with a weakened voice. “I looked around the house, but when I came in here, someone attacked me”

  “Who…?”

  The solicitor looked towards him with pleading eyes as she reached for his hand, but collapsed to the floor before she could take it. The shadows unravelled from the corners of the room and rolled over her like a thick, black ooze, engulfing every inch of her body. Sarah Miller fought back, trying desperately to claw her way out of the stygian substance holding her captive.

  Wrestling her head free, Darren watched in disbelief as she opened her mouth in an attempt to scream, only to see the darkness climb up her neck and force its way down her throat.

  A pair of eyes blinked behind her, somewhere in the black; training their feline pupils on the man standing before them. Darren took a step back, but was entranced by the indescribable entity before him. As it slipped ever closer, the outline of its spindly limbs grew nearer, fading in and out to suggest the shape of a tall, slender humanoid, bending and twisting with a refusal to hold form.

  An arm stretched out, taking a meandering path that reached across the room towards the frightened young man.

  Darren’s fugue state finally broke and he turned, sprinting towards the door.

  But it was too late.

  The creature had caught his leg, tripping him up and began pulling him back. He screamed as he fought against its grip, but to no avail. He watched as a set of razor teeth appeared from the grin of this unnatural monstrosity. The Darkling was real. And it was hungry.