• The Figure’s Grin
    By: Colin O’Donnell (AKA HP Loveshack)
    My memory fails to clarify how I came to this house; only that there was a pressing sense of urgency. I came to in a study, perhaps from one of my depressive drinking episodes. The liveliness of the study stood in stark contrast with a dark red drapery, as if to remind me of the blood that was still pumping through my body; the only thing that could convince me that I was still alive at all. The dust floating through the air suggested apparitions had chosen the room as a vessel.
    The more I come to, the more I remember: throughout the trip here, I felt as if my spine was being stabbed with a cold knife. Every gust of wind was like a murderer’s breath on my neck, its frigid touch recoiling my skin. Every step I took synched with a pulsation in my head; my headache from an apparent hangover throbbing as I ventured throughout the town. Neon lights with promises of everlasting bliss flickered in the night, as if they were bleeding light onto me.
    I began to tire, and found a bench to sit on. It was a paltry wooden thing constructed of wood now as old and durable as a corpse. The town park stretched behind me; a massive sprawl of dissonant melodies from the impish cicadas. Tonight, however, the cicadas sang as if something had possessed them. They became louder with each note, until they would lose their breath, and only the grim crunching of leaves, as if a boot was crushing bones behind me, cracked the nighttime air. I pressed my back against the bench as the cicadas continued with their devilish prank. The fiendish, chilling noise of the crunching seemed to approach me. I wanted to turn my head, but couldn’t find the courage.
    The crunching was eventually as loud as it could be without it completely enveloping me, and out of curiosity, and perhaps panic, I turned around. Relief flooded my consciousness as I found nothing standing in the park. I turned back around, and closed my eyes as I relaxed on the bench. Suddenly, I felt it necessary to open my eyes, as if some supernatural force were begging me to stay awake. My pupils adjusted to the dim light produced by the city, and something caught my eye: the silhouette of a robed man in the shadows, in an alley between two buildings. I stared at the it, and it stared back at me.
    Fear struck me; I was unable to look away. Its glowing yellow eyes stared right past me, seemingly into my soul. I could see a fluorescent white mark open on its face. It was smiling at me; grinning, with jagged teeth. My back struck the bench, and a sharp pain ran through my spine. I immediately leaped off the bench, and sprinted in the direction I had been moving prior to my brief retiring. My lungs were going to fail me; the cold air of the night was frosting over my throat.
    As I was running, I saw a bright light from a small mansion not far away, at one of the corners of the town. I could find no better option: the mansion was my only hope for a sanctuary. The door was unlocked, the first and only fortunate event to occur that night for me. My throat was dry and raspy, so I headed for the kitchen, only to find the faucet broken. There was a door ajar at the opposite end of the Victorian kitchen; a door that seemed to tempt me to enter. I approached it, as whispers shot from within it. Suddenly, these whispers were interrupted by a loud thud as the door slammed to a close. My back ached and I fell to my knees; no gust of wind could have slammed that door so violently. I continued my exploration of the manor.
    Upstairs, a warm fire in the study welcomed me. Books written in a long forgotten language sprawled across the floor, and a door, lacquered and ornamented, stood across from me. This was where I began my story.
    “So, someone finally comes in; a drunk, no less. I suppose it would take someone of altered mental conditions to brave the warnings.” A voice called to me.
    “What warnings?” I replied to the strange voice.
    “You don’t know?” The voice of a middle-aged man; calm, soothing. “That is why you came here. You must be thirsty. Water or liquor? Not that I need to ask.”
    I had forgotten how much I needed a drink, but his offering reminded me. “Liquor?” I replied. “Why? Do you have something behind that decorated door?”
    “I am a man of wealth; I have only the finest liquors.” He replied, cockily. “You may have some, but first, you must do me a favor: A vigil will be held, and a candle must be lit. There is a place of worship in the basement, a place of solace, a sanctuary.” His words struck me, especially the latter, which was the exact word I had used to characterize the mansion. “You must stand vigil in it, and soon the alcohol will be yours. The matches are on the coffee table in the study you stand in now.”
    I said nothing, and equipped the matches. I went, with a strong desire to forget what had happened, to the basement. The door protested me as I struggled to open it, and only after a sufficient struggle did it open. The basement was dark, and I lit a match to make it safely down the stairs. A single candle was in the center of the room, and as instructed, I lit it.
    The light illuminated two eerily human eyes painted on the ground with striking detail. Red and bloodshot, they stared at me. I must have lost track of time, as the candle had now burned to less than an inch. The light shined broader, somehow illuminating the entire floor. Suddenly, I could see that the eyes were not the only drawing on the floor. The same face that stared at me near the park was drawn on the ground, with the same startling grin. I looked up, and before me stood the silhouette, like a tumor blotting out the darkness as it grimaced and disappeared. I ran up the stairs, possessing intimate memory of the shaky steps.
    I slammed the basement door closed behind me, and quickly barricaded it with a sturdy chair. The house was silent; the occasional metallic sound penetrating my hearing. I ran up the stairs and into the study; the fire now cackling form its death. I didn’t remember anything about me, but I knew that I didn’t want to live with such a creature following me. I wanted to drink myself stupid, until I forgot everything.
    I slammed my first on the opulent door, yelling “The vigil is done! I have upheld my end of the bargain!” The voice did not reprise itself. “Please! I have done what you said! I do not want to be alone!” I heard a click, and the door swung open. Inside of the room, which was no more than a closet compared to the lavishness of the rest of the mansion, hung a body from a ceiling light; presumably the voice that had soothed me what must have been hours ago. The small room was barren, save for a table and a broken lamp.
    On one of the tables was a scrap of paper. I moved closer to it, and on it was written “You will never be alone.” As I held it in my hand, it was dripping with blood, as if the paper itself was bleeding. The door behind me slammed shut, and I saw the yellow eyes and the grimace for the last time.