Lunacy [[A short story]]

A quick horror, for those who need their daily fix of sickness. :D

The inn loomed in front of me. I had been walking in  the country for some time. It was the 15th of November, the deadest black night and I was so cold.The bitter wind chilled me to the very bone, and I was desperate for some warmth and friendliness.

 I was visiting my dear sister, who was ill. She lived in the small country town of Maryleborne, and had written to me requesting that I come and care for her while she got over the most dreadful rheumatism.

 The inn was old, of Tudor build I would guess, and it had a certain mysterious etherealness about it. As I walked up to it, my footsteps echoed across the courtyard, and the trees seemed to whisper "stay away," at me.

 I opened the door, and walked up to the old woman sat behind the desk. Her face was spattered with liver spots, and her gnarly fingers gripped a pen as if it were a weapon. I would have guessed her to be at least eighty. From my angle, I could see the top of her head, and her white thinning hair showed an alarmingly pink scalp underneath. Her eyes were closed and she was snoring heavily, her ample bosom rising and falling in time to her breaths.

 I cleared my throat and she abruptly woke up, and cleared her throat.

"I need a room, for the night," I spoke loudly, in case she had hearing problems.

" Of course dear," she rasped, smiling and showing a pair of badly fitting false teeth. Something about her didn't seem quite right. On the desk were laid several fat black cigars, which I guessed caused the slightly heady smell in there.

"Name?" she asked.

"Um.. Leopold. Leopold Emorton" I said, uneasily.

She wrote it in a shaky hand, and gave me a key.

"Room 13, up the stairs and on the left."

"Thank you," I smiled, and proceeded upstairs.

As I stood outside the room and fumbled with the heavy iron key, I heard a thump and a moan from next door, room 12, 'Some people have no concept of keeping their sex lives toned down,' I thought, and finally managed to slip the key into the lock, and turn it.

 Room 13 was a small dingy affair of a room. The bed posts were all mossy at the top, as if they had been outside. The curtain were slightly motheaten. and smelled of mildew. I opened the bathroom door, and saw a small tin bathtub, and a dirty sink. The toilet was a communal outdoor thing. I resolved not to use it, and find a civilsed one the next day.

 Gingerly, I pulled back the duvet, but the sheets were reassuringly crispy white, and smelt freshly laundered. I jumped in to bed and soon drifted away, but my dreams were plagued with terror and a rasping voice that sounded so familiar, but I couldn't place it.

 I awoke at might night, sweating hard, my pyjamas sticking to my clammy body and my heart racing so hard I thought it would burst from it's cage.

 As I calmed down, and my hard breathing subsided, I heard the strangest thing. A young girl's voice, singing old nursery rhymes.

"A-tish-oo! A-tish-oo! We all fall down!" Her voice was strangely enticing, as alluring as a siren's call, pulling me out of bed, and out of my room. As I got out into the corridor, her voice stopped. The spell was broken, but I was so curious, I just had to know what was going on. The slap-pad-shuffle of my feet on the wooden floor echoed around me at every step, until I was stood outside that room. Room 12.

 The door seemed to stretch out taller. The oak panels reflected a vague picture of my face, but my expression was twisted into a horrible scream, worthy of Edvard Munch. I closed my eyes, trying to make the image of myself go away. And as I opened them again, the door creaked, and slipped open.

 It revolved on its hinges, slowly creaking, and revealing part by part the grisly picture inside. An oval mirror lay smashed on the ground, "REFLECTIONS ARE LIES" written in red next to it. And turning the corner into the bathroom, I was greeted with an image that I will remember for the rest of my life. There was a young girl, maybe six, maybe seven, flung over the edge of the bathtub. Her abdomen had been autopsied, andthere was nothing left inside. Her heart was next to her head, and her lungs were both dissected anf left in the sink.

 Her intestines were strung up over the towel holder, with "Dry your sins off" written next to it, in the red which I now recognised to be blood. The empty shell that was her body had "WHY?" written on it. I looked at her face. Her blood matted her blonde hair against her face, and her nose was broken. Drying blood was veined all over her face.

 And her eyes, those dark, terrified eyes, looked like they still lived. I closed them, and they were still warm. And then it hit me. Here eys hadn't glazed over.  Her blood was not dried. This girl was still warm. She hadn't been killed even ten minutes ago. And I knew for a fact that I had heard no-one leave this room. The killer was still here.

 I clasped my hands over my mouth, and slowly started backing away.

 "Oh my God," I whispered.

"Your God won't save you now," rasped an evil voice. And I felt two sharp stabs in the back. As I drifted slowly out of consciousness, I saaw his face for a second. Only a second.


It was me.



The end.

The End

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