I had originally planned to wait until after Christmas to post my next story. But the writing prompt for my short story group this week was "Christmas Eve" and I couldn't resist posting my story while it was still Christmas time.
Unlike most of my stories, this one is being posted here within minutes after finishing it, which means I haven't gotten any kind of review or feedback on it yet. So, as always, I would be most eager to hear any feedback, suggestions or ideas.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
James Meadows
Gifts from the Forbidden Room
by James J Meadows III
It was the coldest Christmas Eve the village had ever
experienced, the deepest snow the village had ever experienced and the
strongest wind the village had ever experienced. No one was out walking the
streets on their way to visit friends and families. No carolers broke the
howling gale with their croaking voices. Nor did any church bells ring,
announcing the end of their Christmas Eve vigils. Anyone looking through a
window or peering through the night might wonder if the village was a ghost
town.
The lack of distractions made the night perfect for my
needs. Not that anyone ever interrupted me. Despite being the only daughter of
the wealthiest family in the village, and having inherited my parent’s fortune after
they passed away, few people wanted anything to do with me. My family had a bad
reputation. Most people avoided us if possible.
No one visited me on Christmas. No one invited me to parties
or dances. No one brought me any gifts or sent me any cards. It was a lonely
existence, resulting in many long nights spent wishing there were someone who
cared. Still, just because I didn’t have a friend, didn’t mean I wouldn’t get
exactly what I wanted for Christmas. Those people couldn’t get me what I
wanted anyway.
Collecting the last of my supplies, a small jewelry box
filled with salt and a bowl filled with water, I proceeded through the wall of
darkness, whose grip upon the drafty old house remained despite the dim glow of
the tiny candle in my hand.
Reaching the staircase leading to the second floor, I
started my progression upward, eyes focused intensely on the vaguely
discernable steps my feet ascended, and not on the waves of visions swirling
around me. Images of wars fought and not fought, babies yet to be born and
children yet to die, mingled with visions of blood running down the stairs
before me. All fought for my attention. I didn’t want these visions, yet they
came nonetheless. They always did on this night.
Reaching the top of the steps, I veered right, down the
longest darkest hallway of my family’s ancestral estate, past the small room
with the four post bed, which served as my own during my parent’s lifetime, and
around a corner to where another staircase led even further upward.
Here, the light was just a formality. I had walked these
stairs so many times, I felt confident I could do it with my eyes closed. How
many times, as a child, had I scaled these steps to gaze or listen at the doors
of the forbidden room above? How many days did I count until my coming of age
when I would finally be allowed to open them? And how many Christmas Eves since
that day had I returned, each time wishing I had never ascended them in the
first place?
More visions swam before my eyes, visions of my parents,
both how I knew them and before I knew them, visions of distant ancestors and
relatives, some I knew and some I didn’t know, all crossing these stairs
throughout the ages on Christmas Eve night, to perform the same ritual. For the
door could only be opened on Christmas Eve, and on every Christmas Eve, I was
there, just as my parents were there during every Christmas Eve of their lives.
And someday, when I too married and had children, my children would come to
this door, too, just like their mother. I know. I had seen that in the visions
also.
I shut these visions out too. I needed to focus on what I
was doing and where I was going. Twenty one steps carried me to the top floor
of the manor where, on the opposite side of a long wooden landing, now covered
thickly with the dust of a year’s neglect, for no one came up here to clean,
stood the only pristine-looking objects in the whole house, a pair of ornate
oaken doors, perfectly polished though no rag had ever touched their gleaming
exteriors.
A deep steadying breath crossed my lips as I fought to
control the waves of emotion washing over me. I had performed the ritual more
than a dozen times, ever since I was old enough to memorize the words and
movements, with the same precision of my parents. And yet, despite all of these
years of experience and the incessant days of practice I always went through
leading up to Christmas Eve, I never ceased to feel, as my parents admitted
they felt, a certain sense of apprehension toward what was about to happen.
Ultimately, however, the nerves meant nothing since,
regardless of any anxiety I might feel for the experience ahead, there was no
turning back. And, to be perfectly honest, the thought, though perhaps tempting
to other people, never even occurred to me. This was, after all, whether
blessing or curse, my family’s legacy, passed from generation to generation for
as long as any we had owned this house, which was as long as any written
records recorded.
Placing down the candle, a slow and rather more complicated
process than it might seem, since I could not risk letting a single drop of wax
fall on the floor or chance the candle going out for any reason, I proceeded to
empty my hands of all items, positioning the salt and water on their proper
places.
The house was much chillier up here, where no grates were
built to support a fire, and the thin roof overhead did little to muffle the
howling winds rattling across its aging shingles. The conditions, uncomfortable
enough on their own, only worsened as I unlaced the front of my dress, allowing
the garment to slither off my lithe frame onto a pile at my feet. Now naked,
the cold was almost unbearable, and I shivered uncontrollably as I picked up
the dress, holding it outstretched before me and headed for the door.
I placed the gown neatly spread across the floor right in
front of the doorway, the neck of the dress toward the door and the skirt
facing away. I straightened back up, surveying it, making sure everything was
correct. It was. I turned toward the door, curling my fingers into a fist, and
raising it level with the elegantly carved face of a young woman, staring at me
from the front of the left door.
There I stood, breathing deeply, resolving myself to
continue, accepting that I had no choice, steeling myself against what I was
about to see, determined not to turn back now.
*Boom*
My fist fell, hitting the door. The ceremony had begun. I
struck the door a second time and, after another five seconds, a third. Then,
my hand fell to my side and I stood there, listening.
*Boom*
A loud knock sounded from the opposite side of the door. My
heart leapt into my chest, so I could barely breathe. I turned away from the
door, heading toward ceremonial supplies. A series of five
carefully measured steps carried me back to the candle, beside which sat the
water and the salt.
*Boom*
The knock sounded again. I bent over and collected the salt,
grabbing a handful of it as I straightened up. I held the box before me,
casting the salt in a circle across the floor with my free hand.
“To the East from which the sun’s light awakes,” I shouted,
my voice rising above the harsh wails of the wind, which seemed to grow louder
with each second. “To the North, where the flowers grow when spring comes; To
the South, where the flowers wither as fall approaches. To the West, where the
sun fades as winter ends, bringing darkness and sleep to the now weary land!
Seal this circle with the magic of this sand.”
*Boom*
With the last crash, the doors flew open revealing the
briefest glimpse of the room within: a glimpse so bizarre and indescribable
that there seem no words for it. How can one describe a darkness of
immeasurable depth, which, by its very nature, singes the eyes with its
brightness; or explain a smell so subtle one can barely taste it, yet so
overwhelming that the senses can hardly cope; or express a sound so quiet one
can hardly hear it, while at the same time so pervasive it stings the ears.
There are no words for such things. They can only be experienced.
Yet, just as quickly as the sensations came, the doors shut
again, barring the room from my view. At the same instant, the dress,
previously resting upon the floor, rose into the air before me. In a slow
gradual manner, reminiscent of a balloon inflating before my eyes, the dress
expanded, filling as though some unseen force were slipping it on. A second
later, the force ceased to be unseen.
I stood facing a figure I knew only too well. I recognized
her long blonde hair, her bright green eyes, her smooth skin, and every other
feature about her without the slightest difficulty. An easy task, since she was
me.
“Hello Melina.”
Her lips never moved, yet her voice drifted softly across
the room, as if carried by a summer breeze.
“Merry Christmas.”
The words hung in the air for a several seconds, while the
woman looked at me. I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for me to reply or not. I
chose not to. This was not the first time the spirit had assumed my form for
one of these meetings. But that didn’t mean it annoyed me any less and I didn’t
feel much like wishing it a Merry Christmas.
I didn't know how the spirit first came to occupy the house.
Some legends claimed my ancestors trapped it here, demanding it grant them
favors. Other diaries claimed the spirit came to live in the house of its own
free will, awarding the family boons for allowing it to stay.
Either way, I didn't trust it. The spirit was an unstable
entity, dangerous and unpredictable, often creating mischief with even its most
benign gestures; hence, the reason I took the precaution of surrounding myself
in a protective circle.
“You have come to me,” the voice continued. “The one who can
see all secrets kept and to be kept, who knows all things learned and
unlearned, who can reveal all mysteries and lore past and future. Yet I sense
few questions in you. What would you ask of me?”
I took a deep breath. Though I had said these words many
times before, I still felt nervous every time I spoke them.
“I wish to make the visions stop,” I said. The wish was,
itself, somewhat futile, since I already knew the answer.
A small smile spread across the spirit’s face.
“Every year you come here asking for this,” she said. “Can I
not give you so much more? Can I not show you all the secrets of the past or
reveal all the majesty of the future?”
In response to these words, images swam before my eyes;
images hinting of secret knowledge, ancient mysteries, lost glories and of
equally magnificent splendors yet to be created. The spirit’s speech and
visions took me by surprise. Rarely did she ever converse with us in such a manner. I shook my head.
“These my family already has, and, if I could, I would give
the gift back. Yet you will not take it.”
The spirit ignored the second part of my statement.
“Why not accept power, instead? I could give you magic
beyond your wildest dreams, physical talent to make the mightiest man jealous,
or charisma to make all people bend before your will.”
“All such gifts I may have, and yet find no happiness in
their acquisition,” I replied. “For power is a dangerous ally, and all who seek
it find themselves consumed, as so many of my ancestors learned.”
“Indeed, absolute power can make one lonely,” the spirit
said, giving a mischievous smile. “Is that not what you fear the most?”
I felt my blood run cold. A new image swam before my eyes:
that of a handsome, gentle man with a kind smile, a warm touch, and a deep
soul, sitting, his arms wrapped around me, upon the warm couch beneath a soft
blanket, as the wind rattled the night outside. A deep longing crept into my
heart. This was what I longed for more than all the wealth and the
power of all the worlds: an end to the seemingly perpetual loneliness haunting
my days since my parents passed.
My hand, lost like my mind in the waves of unbroken desire
to feel the warmth and love of the image, drifted unconsciously away from my
body, extending to touch my lover's face. At the same instance, a warning cry
sounded in my brain. I drew back, realizing with a sudden horror that my arm
almost crossed out of the salt circle surrounding me.
“All of those things will come on their own, in time,” I
said, regaining my composure. “Now is not yet that time.”
The vision vanished.
“If you would have none of these things, why have you come,”
the voice responded. “You know I cannot take the visions away from you. They
were a gift demanded by your first ancestor. And, the gift cannot be taken
away.”
“But it can be suppressed for a year,” I replied, “just as
you do every year.”
“But why waste your wishes on this?” the voice responded.
“Every year your one wish, your family’s one wish they can make of me, is
wasted on such a silly purpose: to take away the gift of clairvoyance I
graciously bestowed upon them generations ago. Why such waste?”
“You know why,” I answered. “You know what I see when it is
active. I can’t sleep; I can’t talk; I can hardly even walk because of all the
visions. Your ‘gift’ was a punishment meant to render us helpless.”
“Learn to master it and its secrets,” the voice responded.
“Who knows what you might learn?”
I pondered these words. Again, it was very unlike the spirit
to engage in such a conversation. Was this some kind of trick?
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“You are special,” it responded. “I’ve watched you since
childhood. Of all your family through the many generations, none has shown as
much promise as you. Why not use your gift…”
“Our curse,” I interrupted.
“Whatever,” the spirit replied impatiently. “Why not use it
in a constructive manner, the way your ancestor first wanted. Master it! Learn
it!”
“I have made my wish,” I said, a sense of stubborn
indignation rising in me.
“Very well,” said the spirit, in a voice which almost
sounded like a sigh. “Your energies are suppressed! Now begone! But you will
think about what I said before next Christmas! And you may yet change your
mind.”
As she finished her words, the doors behind her swung open
but this time I didn’t look inside. I merely gazed ahead at the fading figure
before me, as she disappeared from view. Then, the doors closed and the dress
flopped to the ground.
The strange tension in the room seemed to fade. There was a
moment of silence, interrupted only by the sound of the wind.
Hearing the wind brought my thoughts back to the storm and I
suddenly remembered how cold I was. I hurried through the rest of the ritual,
picking of the water and ceremoniously washing away the salt circle before retrieving my dress.
As I retied the strings on the blouse, I couldn’t help
pondering what the spirit told me. Was I really special? Could I really master
the visions? Or was the spirit just playing with me, tempting me to not make
the wish on the one night of the year I was able to - a trick to make me suffer
for the next year, unable to escape the prophetic dreams and nightmares
haunting my waking hours?
I didn’t know. I did know the spirit was telling the truth
about one thing, though. I had a feeling I was going to spend a lot of time
thinking about her words before next Christmas.
Frowning at the thought, I hurried down the steps. There
were no visions or images to trouble me as I walked. And in that way, at
least, I knew I had gotten exactly what I wanted for Christmas.
