The Figure in the Door

Most stories start with a once upon a time or a long time ago, but not this one.

This one starts in a room, a single lamp glows from a corner but the room remains still dim.  A fireplace in the centre of the wall opposite from the door that once housed a beautiful roaring fire is now just a home for soot and dust.  A rocking chair faces the dusty cold fireplace slowly rocking back and forth while the floorboard underneath lets of long creeks as it rocks.

The door handle turns and as the door opens it makes a sound that could make the un-dead’s heart miss a beat.  In the door frame a small figure, a silhouette made by the light from the dim lamp, then a voice, with the cords of an angel, so smooth and warm, it could melt the coldest of hearts beckons to the rocking chair,

“Mother”

The chair stops

“Mother”

There was no answer but the figure knew the chair was listening.

“Mother, I’m here for you, just turn around, please mother”

No response.  Just silence.

The voice was about to give up but then movement came from behind the chair.  A soft but week whisper answers gently,

“Hush now child, please go to sleep, I’m so tired and I can no longer weep”.

The figure shaken pleaded again.

“I can’t do this anymore, please mother”.

But a deathly silence came from behind the chair.  The figure sighed and closed the door.  The chair once again started to rock slowly and whispering words that nobody could hear.

The woman holds a blanket wrapped like a doll with a light grip, she will never let it go, and her heart longed for her dream which she clinged onto.  A dream of a life what could have been?  Her life now in tatters just her memories and dreams her comforts.  Hours passed as she dreams of her better life, and then the door opens again.

“Mother please, please let me go”.

“You know I can’t child”.

“Please, mother I bet you let me go”.

The figure now crying from the door frame, tears trickle down his cheeks like rain.

The woman from the chair slowly stood up, cradling her blanket and she turned around.  Her face was old and broken, her eyes dark and harsh, yet somehow her youth still remained.  She was frail and week and thin, her clothes hanged of her tiny frame.

“I can’t my son, please don’t make me”

The figure in the door looked at the blanket

“Let me go mother”

The frail woman fell to her knees; she placed the blanket on the floor.  It was so stiff and so heavy and yet so small.

“I’m sorry my child”

Her hands stretched out to welcome the figure, a reunion of love and the figure ran towards her arms.  Her cuddle engulfed the figure and tears fell from their eyes.

“You forgot about me, didn’t you Mother”.

“Never, my son”.

“You did mother, you did”.

The figure reached into their pocket, a dagger, new and shiny and deadly plunged into the woman’s back.  Again and again the dagger entered her back yet the woman didn’t scream or whimper she just whispered “my son”.

“I’m your daughter” the figure snarled back, as she turned away her mother dropped to the floor and slid over to the blanket on the floor.  With her last ounce of energy she unfolded the blanket and kissed the rotting flesh of her dead son lips.

“Finally together” she took her final breath.

“You should have let me go” her daughter whispered and closed the door.