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the color of dead blood, devoid of oxygen and hope
Since I'm not in the mood to format it for my site just now, but I don't want it to go unread, I have decided to post my gothic short story here. I wrote it for my Gothic Fiction final, accompanied by an essay about the Silent Hill game series. It's chock-full of gothic stereotypes, as that was the purpose, but I think it's fairly original as well. I'm proud of it, and I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
And now, Of The Manor by Alex Yvette
The sky glowed tangerine, and my backpack felt heavy upon my shoulders. I looked behind me, noting the sparse clouds of dirt my steps kicked up, marring the otherwise still air. Heat made the stillness stifling, almost oppressive, and I was thankful for the ripples of wind my forward movement stimulated. Out as far as the eye could see rose small hills, sloping almost imperceptibly into separate peaks. I could still see the vague lines of city buildings firm behind me, stark and unnatural against the intersecting curves of nature. Somewhere back there, Aaron would read my note, and he’d know that I’d finally done it. He’d tremble with a bit of fear—he always was the coward of us—and he’d rush to tell our friends where I was. Whining and panting, he’d urge someone to go find me, to not let the evil get me, and they’d laugh at him, and wait anxiously for my return. I’d come back with stories to tell, about the bodies of the Maurds, about the ghost of Ernest, about the horrors there in that house that no one else had seen but me.
My pace quickened, eager to learn all I could about the Manor. It once had been given a proper name, I’m sure, but that title has been lost. Now, we call it just the Manor, and that is enough distinction for all. There were travelers who had passed this way before and made it back to town, but none had ventured very close to the Manor. One such passerby brought with him a journal that he had found on the ground near the trail there. It held such strange mysteries, tales of spirits and heavy closed doors. I cannot properly convey its true perversity here. The oddest part of all was how it ended. The handwriting transformed into quick scrawls that, through chance or intention, I am not sure, wavered in slanting arcs across the page. It was as if the author had been writing fast, and without looking at the page, or perhaps in darkness, and so unaware of his straying from the orderly blue lines that sliced along horizontally. The last lines read the same phrase, over and over, horrible in its monotony:
“Can’t get out, can’t get out, can’t get out…”
I laughed a little. Poor sap, getting himself stuck in the Manor. You can’t let your imagination run away with you on these things, or you end up trapping yourself with your own paranoia. That’s what I thought then.
I slowed down a little. Everything around me seemed different, somehow. The lurid orange of the sky had melted into a dark crimson, like the last shades of sunset. It lingered, though, much longer than a sunset should, reaching red fingers across the sky in violent zigzags. Scanning the horizon, earth seemed meaner than it had before. The hills no longer sloped gently, but instead rose into sharp peaks that pierced the air. It was almost as though those fragmented crags had sliced into the clouds, and heaven itself was bleeding over my head. I felt more uneasy about my journey than I had when I set out, and my feet started to sprint of their own accord. What I was running to, I cannot say. Only the Manor lay in wait for me, and isn’t that what I was afraid of?
My breath came in staccato pants, and eventually I slowed my running. No reason to rush this, after all. Isn’t half of the adventure the journey itself? Looking around, I realized the terrain had changed once again. Where once flat dust has coated the ground, now rocks of varying sizes and textures stood firmly in dents in the earth. I slid my hand over the top of one large stone, and finding it clean, seated myself on it for a moment’s rest. The story of the journal flew back, unbidden, to my mind. When the traveler brought it back, many people initially considered it to be a hoax. Everyone around town knows the legend of the Manor and the story of Dr. Maurd and his young wife.
When they married, Maurd announced his intentions of renovating the old Manor and making it into his permanent estate. It was his by law, having been inherited from some uncle, who came into possession of it many generations ago, but no one had expected him to even step foot on the property, more or less to live there. He scoffed at the ideas of a curse or a haunting, calling them baseless and preposterous.
“No one knows exactly what happened to the original owners, or even who they were. How can we conclude that they met an untimely end?” he reasoned. “Moreover, what’s to say the house holds any remembrances? It is a house, not a person. It cannot feel, nor think. It holds no terror for me.”
Though he spoke those words decades ago, they have not lost resonance in the minds of the people. He and his wife set out for that Manor of unknown horrors, and they never returned. It was only speculation for many years as to whether they had overcome the curse and lived out their lives together in peace, or if it had consumed them as it had all else. This devouring nature, this hunger, is what makes the Manor noteworthy. Most houses of infamy live on because of their shocking history. The Manor’s history is the antithesis of this—it has none, and so is all the more terrifying. There are no records of its coming into existence, no deeds in the files, and no memories of the owners held in the annals of history. It simply existed one year, born from its own need to prey, and no one could approach it. The curious tried, and while most came scampering back for its front gate unnerved but unharmed, some entered. Of those, we never heard again.
Thus the shock of Dr. Maurd’s decision was felt by all. How foolish, to think he could settle this being of chaos, this creature of dark and mysterious origins, this ravenous beast of wood and stone. His colleagues in the town shook their heads, wondering when his logical nature had deserted him. To ignore the Manor’s past! Blasphemy!
And so the town railed against his decision, and so he went forward with his tiny bride to tame the darkness. We knew nothing until the journal was returned to town.
The name in the front read “Ernest Stonewall”. The cover may have once been cherry red, vibrant and alive, but when I saw it, it was pale and faded, like a million flashbulbs had assaulted it at once. Inside were pages that may have once held an account, and now held only fragments of memories. The first entry was dated in October, near the middle of the month, and Stonewall had commented on Halloween’s approach.
I chose October for my expedition not due to the legendry of it, but through simple ease. The weather is cool but not yet winter cold, and the nighttime—the period for viewing evil—is lengthy. Regardless, Halloween should play no part in my journey. I am to be back within a week, and even though the time of ghouls and goblins quickly nears, I am far from unsettled. The trees and bushes are lush and welcoming, and I cannot help but feel that the myths shrouding this estate are overblown and farfetched. They are remnants of an era long past, where ill health and fortune were caused by vengeful spirits, and unknown waters were labeled “Here be Monsters.” We know better than this.
His journal went on for several more pages, describing more of the flora and lack of fauna, until it jumped ahead in time. A large chunk of pages were missing, which are suspected to have covered his first impressions of the Manor. The next entry present seemed peaceful, speaking thoughtfully of the architecture. The Manor itself, he said, was a lovely sight to behold, and had scarcely rotted at all. He encouraged the reader to come visit as well, declaring gothic mythology to be the only thing dead in the Manor.
A few days later, however, he recanted this notion. No pages were missing in this interval. He had simply not written for 5 days. The date, however, was the only thing clearly legible in the entry. Most of it and the rest of the journal had been smudged, water-damaged, or just torn. The words visible were enough.
I cannot stress my surprise at t…she appears frail…fingers outstretched, clawing the d…othered by the wild tre…cannot breath, cannot think, can onl…omthing’s not rig…re in the shadows, they’r…oh God…Lord save me from the ev…rocities commi…incomplete lege…is no hope now for m…I shall be of them.
This last phrase was repeated three times, then the pages turned into a solid block of “Can’t get out, can’t get out, can’t get out…” as I described before.
It is this last bit that intrigued me. What sort of horror lets a man continue to write about his doom? There is no time for scribbled messages when being devoured or strangled. I am of an errant nature, curious to the grave, and so I found myself walking the trail, dirt swirling behind my heels.
My musing let my mind relax, and when I stopped to look around again, I found myself at a large stone gate. The horizon lay flat and black as far as I could see, interrupted only by this monstrosity of rock and iron that jutted up violently against the fading sky. Stones were missing in awkward places throughout the structure, and I trembled involuntarily as I touched the metal gate gently. No wall connected to this gate, and fearing for my safety should it give when I pushed to open the slick iron grating, I opted to step around it. Behind lie what I’d journeyed this whole way for, and nothing but it would have the satisfaction of stealing away my life.
The door to the manor was large, twice as tall as I am, and set with gilded streaks along the wood’s natural grain. A heavy brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head with open jaws sat slightly off center and barely above my comfortable reach. I pressed on the door, and found it far easier to open than anticipated; it slid inward silently, and without any resistance.
The inside was lavishly decorated with thick velvets and gold-plated facets. Immediately inside, I found myself in a plush living room. A large marble fireplace with no visible ashes sat at one end of the room, opposed by a long, stout couch with wooden clawed feet and brass button eyes set deep in fluffs of scarlet fabric. The room was empty sans these, yet somehow it still seemed claustrophobic. I inspected my environment—all the other doors in the room were locked, so I could content myself only with a thorough examination of this oppressive den of luxury. The fireplace was large enough to stand in, and I did so, looking up at the darkened night sky. I could see tree tops just brushing the stone rim of the chimney, as if reaching down to scrape against my upturned face. A slight shudder skittered through me, and I stepped quickly back onto the brightly polish hardwood floor. There were no windows anywhere, only thick walls that sounded pregnant when I rapped on them, and odd swathes of fabric in purple-red, the color of dead blood, devoid of oxygen and hope, cutting across the perimeter of the room. Resigning myself to the disappointment of this rich but mundane room, I set about examining the couch. It was surprisingly light, comprised of thinly curving wood bands and great quantities of fibrous padding held behind by flimsy sheets of worn velvet. The brass buttons piercing the back looked ominous and watchful, and the padding gave way to pressure so much that I feared I would be swallowed whole if I sat down.
Moving away, I noticed a bundle of some sort sitting past the couch in a corner. I paused momentarily, then stepped cautiously closer. It was a quilted blanket, like one a new mother makes while her tiny life sleeps, wrapped lightly about what appeared to be a bundle of muslin and thread. As I grew nearer, horror rose up in me at the recognition of Dr. Maurd’s young wife. Her skin looked dull and thin, sinking into the hollows of her cheeks and collarbone. Her hair was fine spider web, still neatly parted and brushed as it must have been when they arrived. She was wearing an under dress, faded pink with lace edging, that looked thicker than the whole of her body. Brittle wrists held the quilt fast about her, her last familiar possession in this unnatural place. I stumbled back blindly, suddenly regretting this entire journey, and ran for the door. It was far more difficult to open now, and I resorted to plunging my shoulder against the wood to hasten its movement. Outside the pinprick stars shone sharply against an ever-nearing black sky. Tall trees winked at me, leaves turning from green to gray before my eyes, then shooting off on the wind to strike my face. In the distance, the gate crumbled, iron gate rusting before it hit the ground. I stumbled, hands surging down into mud, and in a puddle my face grinned back at me with sharpened fangs.
I crawled back to the Manor, blinded by rain and wind, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut as easily as it had opened the first time. There had been no trees there when I entered, I was sure of that, and the night air had been motionless and clear with no smell of water.
And then I knew. I saw Dr. Maurd running out the door, one last effort to obtain rescue for him and his young wife. I saw him stumble as I had, and see the demon in the water. I saw him claw his way through the winds of Hell, but he strived further away from the Manor, not back to it as I had. Finally, I saw him slide flat onto his belly, weeping to the hills for their betrayal, and slowing breathing his life away from him, fingers still outstretching, clawing the dirt desperately. Here, back in the Manor, his wife waited for help, but none came, and too terrified to step out into the horror, she slowly wasted away. Her mother’s quilt had kept her warm and healthy as a baby, but no human effort could stand against such a natural evil.
So I write this now, to you, whoever you are, hoping that it may somehow reach the town. I will do my best to make it farther than Dr. Maurd and Mr. Stonewall did, and perhaps my journal will fare a bit better than the latter’s. There is no hope for me now—it is not the Manor that will kill me, but everything else. No one must enter this place, forgotten by all kindness and light. The Manor is the one safe haven in this land of horrors—there is only violent death outside, but only slow and quiet death from sheer mortality within—and this is what makes it far more horrific than any legend can portray.
And now, Of The Manor by Alex Yvette
The sky glowed tangerine, and my backpack felt heavy upon my shoulders. I looked behind me, noting the sparse clouds of dirt my steps kicked up, marring the otherwise still air. Heat made the stillness stifling, almost oppressive, and I was thankful for the ripples of wind my forward movement stimulated. Out as far as the eye could see rose small hills, sloping almost imperceptibly into separate peaks. I could still see the vague lines of city buildings firm behind me, stark and unnatural against the intersecting curves of nature. Somewhere back there, Aaron would read my note, and he’d know that I’d finally done it. He’d tremble with a bit of fear—he always was the coward of us—and he’d rush to tell our friends where I was. Whining and panting, he’d urge someone to go find me, to not let the evil get me, and they’d laugh at him, and wait anxiously for my return. I’d come back with stories to tell, about the bodies of the Maurds, about the ghost of Ernest, about the horrors there in that house that no one else had seen but me.
My pace quickened, eager to learn all I could about the Manor. It once had been given a proper name, I’m sure, but that title has been lost. Now, we call it just the Manor, and that is enough distinction for all. There were travelers who had passed this way before and made it back to town, but none had ventured very close to the Manor. One such passerby brought with him a journal that he had found on the ground near the trail there. It held such strange mysteries, tales of spirits and heavy closed doors. I cannot properly convey its true perversity here. The oddest part of all was how it ended. The handwriting transformed into quick scrawls that, through chance or intention, I am not sure, wavered in slanting arcs across the page. It was as if the author had been writing fast, and without looking at the page, or perhaps in darkness, and so unaware of his straying from the orderly blue lines that sliced along horizontally. The last lines read the same phrase, over and over, horrible in its monotony:
“Can’t get out, can’t get out, can’t get out…”
I laughed a little. Poor sap, getting himself stuck in the Manor. You can’t let your imagination run away with you on these things, or you end up trapping yourself with your own paranoia. That’s what I thought then.
I slowed down a little. Everything around me seemed different, somehow. The lurid orange of the sky had melted into a dark crimson, like the last shades of sunset. It lingered, though, much longer than a sunset should, reaching red fingers across the sky in violent zigzags. Scanning the horizon, earth seemed meaner than it had before. The hills no longer sloped gently, but instead rose into sharp peaks that pierced the air. It was almost as though those fragmented crags had sliced into the clouds, and heaven itself was bleeding over my head. I felt more uneasy about my journey than I had when I set out, and my feet started to sprint of their own accord. What I was running to, I cannot say. Only the Manor lay in wait for me, and isn’t that what I was afraid of?
My breath came in staccato pants, and eventually I slowed my running. No reason to rush this, after all. Isn’t half of the adventure the journey itself? Looking around, I realized the terrain had changed once again. Where once flat dust has coated the ground, now rocks of varying sizes and textures stood firmly in dents in the earth. I slid my hand over the top of one large stone, and finding it clean, seated myself on it for a moment’s rest. The story of the journal flew back, unbidden, to my mind. When the traveler brought it back, many people initially considered it to be a hoax. Everyone around town knows the legend of the Manor and the story of Dr. Maurd and his young wife.
When they married, Maurd announced his intentions of renovating the old Manor and making it into his permanent estate. It was his by law, having been inherited from some uncle, who came into possession of it many generations ago, but no one had expected him to even step foot on the property, more or less to live there. He scoffed at the ideas of a curse or a haunting, calling them baseless and preposterous.
“No one knows exactly what happened to the original owners, or even who they were. How can we conclude that they met an untimely end?” he reasoned. “Moreover, what’s to say the house holds any remembrances? It is a house, not a person. It cannot feel, nor think. It holds no terror for me.”
Though he spoke those words decades ago, they have not lost resonance in the minds of the people. He and his wife set out for that Manor of unknown horrors, and they never returned. It was only speculation for many years as to whether they had overcome the curse and lived out their lives together in peace, or if it had consumed them as it had all else. This devouring nature, this hunger, is what makes the Manor noteworthy. Most houses of infamy live on because of their shocking history. The Manor’s history is the antithesis of this—it has none, and so is all the more terrifying. There are no records of its coming into existence, no deeds in the files, and no memories of the owners held in the annals of history. It simply existed one year, born from its own need to prey, and no one could approach it. The curious tried, and while most came scampering back for its front gate unnerved but unharmed, some entered. Of those, we never heard again.
Thus the shock of Dr. Maurd’s decision was felt by all. How foolish, to think he could settle this being of chaos, this creature of dark and mysterious origins, this ravenous beast of wood and stone. His colleagues in the town shook their heads, wondering when his logical nature had deserted him. To ignore the Manor’s past! Blasphemy!
And so the town railed against his decision, and so he went forward with his tiny bride to tame the darkness. We knew nothing until the journal was returned to town.
The name in the front read “Ernest Stonewall”. The cover may have once been cherry red, vibrant and alive, but when I saw it, it was pale and faded, like a million flashbulbs had assaulted it at once. Inside were pages that may have once held an account, and now held only fragments of memories. The first entry was dated in October, near the middle of the month, and Stonewall had commented on Halloween’s approach.
I chose October for my expedition not due to the legendry of it, but through simple ease. The weather is cool but not yet winter cold, and the nighttime—the period for viewing evil—is lengthy. Regardless, Halloween should play no part in my journey. I am to be back within a week, and even though the time of ghouls and goblins quickly nears, I am far from unsettled. The trees and bushes are lush and welcoming, and I cannot help but feel that the myths shrouding this estate are overblown and farfetched. They are remnants of an era long past, where ill health and fortune were caused by vengeful spirits, and unknown waters were labeled “Here be Monsters.” We know better than this.
His journal went on for several more pages, describing more of the flora and lack of fauna, until it jumped ahead in time. A large chunk of pages were missing, which are suspected to have covered his first impressions of the Manor. The next entry present seemed peaceful, speaking thoughtfully of the architecture. The Manor itself, he said, was a lovely sight to behold, and had scarcely rotted at all. He encouraged the reader to come visit as well, declaring gothic mythology to be the only thing dead in the Manor.
A few days later, however, he recanted this notion. No pages were missing in this interval. He had simply not written for 5 days. The date, however, was the only thing clearly legible in the entry. Most of it and the rest of the journal had been smudged, water-damaged, or just torn. The words visible were enough.
I cannot stress my surprise at t…she appears frail…fingers outstretched, clawing the d…othered by the wild tre…cannot breath, cannot think, can onl…omthing’s not rig…re in the shadows, they’r…oh God…Lord save me from the ev…rocities commi…incomplete lege…is no hope now for m…I shall be of them.
This last phrase was repeated three times, then the pages turned into a solid block of “Can’t get out, can’t get out, can’t get out…” as I described before.
It is this last bit that intrigued me. What sort of horror lets a man continue to write about his doom? There is no time for scribbled messages when being devoured or strangled. I am of an errant nature, curious to the grave, and so I found myself walking the trail, dirt swirling behind my heels.
My musing let my mind relax, and when I stopped to look around again, I found myself at a large stone gate. The horizon lay flat and black as far as I could see, interrupted only by this monstrosity of rock and iron that jutted up violently against the fading sky. Stones were missing in awkward places throughout the structure, and I trembled involuntarily as I touched the metal gate gently. No wall connected to this gate, and fearing for my safety should it give when I pushed to open the slick iron grating, I opted to step around it. Behind lie what I’d journeyed this whole way for, and nothing but it would have the satisfaction of stealing away my life.
The door to the manor was large, twice as tall as I am, and set with gilded streaks along the wood’s natural grain. A heavy brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head with open jaws sat slightly off center and barely above my comfortable reach. I pressed on the door, and found it far easier to open than anticipated; it slid inward silently, and without any resistance.
The inside was lavishly decorated with thick velvets and gold-plated facets. Immediately inside, I found myself in a plush living room. A large marble fireplace with no visible ashes sat at one end of the room, opposed by a long, stout couch with wooden clawed feet and brass button eyes set deep in fluffs of scarlet fabric. The room was empty sans these, yet somehow it still seemed claustrophobic. I inspected my environment—all the other doors in the room were locked, so I could content myself only with a thorough examination of this oppressive den of luxury. The fireplace was large enough to stand in, and I did so, looking up at the darkened night sky. I could see tree tops just brushing the stone rim of the chimney, as if reaching down to scrape against my upturned face. A slight shudder skittered through me, and I stepped quickly back onto the brightly polish hardwood floor. There were no windows anywhere, only thick walls that sounded pregnant when I rapped on them, and odd swathes of fabric in purple-red, the color of dead blood, devoid of oxygen and hope, cutting across the perimeter of the room. Resigning myself to the disappointment of this rich but mundane room, I set about examining the couch. It was surprisingly light, comprised of thinly curving wood bands and great quantities of fibrous padding held behind by flimsy sheets of worn velvet. The brass buttons piercing the back looked ominous and watchful, and the padding gave way to pressure so much that I feared I would be swallowed whole if I sat down.
Moving away, I noticed a bundle of some sort sitting past the couch in a corner. I paused momentarily, then stepped cautiously closer. It was a quilted blanket, like one a new mother makes while her tiny life sleeps, wrapped lightly about what appeared to be a bundle of muslin and thread. As I grew nearer, horror rose up in me at the recognition of Dr. Maurd’s young wife. Her skin looked dull and thin, sinking into the hollows of her cheeks and collarbone. Her hair was fine spider web, still neatly parted and brushed as it must have been when they arrived. She was wearing an under dress, faded pink with lace edging, that looked thicker than the whole of her body. Brittle wrists held the quilt fast about her, her last familiar possession in this unnatural place. I stumbled back blindly, suddenly regretting this entire journey, and ran for the door. It was far more difficult to open now, and I resorted to plunging my shoulder against the wood to hasten its movement. Outside the pinprick stars shone sharply against an ever-nearing black sky. Tall trees winked at me, leaves turning from green to gray before my eyes, then shooting off on the wind to strike my face. In the distance, the gate crumbled, iron gate rusting before it hit the ground. I stumbled, hands surging down into mud, and in a puddle my face grinned back at me with sharpened fangs.
I crawled back to the Manor, blinded by rain and wind, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut as easily as it had opened the first time. There had been no trees there when I entered, I was sure of that, and the night air had been motionless and clear with no smell of water.
And then I knew. I saw Dr. Maurd running out the door, one last effort to obtain rescue for him and his young wife. I saw him stumble as I had, and see the demon in the water. I saw him claw his way through the winds of Hell, but he strived further away from the Manor, not back to it as I had. Finally, I saw him slide flat onto his belly, weeping to the hills for their betrayal, and slowing breathing his life away from him, fingers still outstretching, clawing the dirt desperately. Here, back in the Manor, his wife waited for help, but none came, and too terrified to step out into the horror, she slowly wasted away. Her mother’s quilt had kept her warm and healthy as a baby, but no human effort could stand against such a natural evil.
So I write this now, to you, whoever you are, hoping that it may somehow reach the town. I will do my best to make it farther than Dr. Maurd and Mr. Stonewall did, and perhaps my journal will fare a bit better than the latter’s. There is no hope for me now—it is not the Manor that will kill me, but everything else. No one must enter this place, forgotten by all kindness and light. The Manor is the one safe haven in this land of horrors—there is only violent death outside, but only slow and quiet death from sheer mortality within—and this is what makes it far more horrific than any legend can portray.