Editor’s Note: I shared this short story with you a few years back, but my full vision for the project had not yet been realized. With this book cover design, you get to see how I’ve dreamed of sharing my short stories on this blog. I hope you enjoy it, and the story, below!

Annabelle sat in the dark room. The orange light of a flickering candle licked the edges of the dreary walls when she heard the sound. It could have been a creak in the wood or an evening breeze, but the sudden noise in the darkness made the hairs on the back of her arms stand at attention. She had heard similar sounds many times before, the tapping of a panel with each howl of the wind, the patter of the rain as it washed against the roof slates, or the sounds of gentle footsteps moving in the night. She’d stayed in many old houses of friends and family, and the wheezing of a tired home was quite normal to her. But this sound was different. It reverberated. It felt alive. And was not just the settling of an old house.

As she sat at the dressing table, her eyes stared into the dimly lit mirror and at the reflection of the bedroom door. Waiting. The rectangular gap above the pine-hardwood was still, a cool river of draft diffusing throughout the room and reaching her bare feet. She shuddered, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders to keep her chest warm. There was little chance of sleep tonight. Just as there was little chance the night before.

The stay at her uncle’s palatial manor had been unexpected. Her father, and sole relative, had dropped dead, leaving Annabelle with few options of where to live. Her precious family heirlooms were sold to pay off a number of family debts and expenses, and all that was left was a measly living. She soon found herself relying on the kindness of those around her, shuffled from friend to friend until her estranged uncle had offered her a room in his decaying estate. And just like that, after overstaying her welcome elsewhere, she was left with only one option.

Annabelle went back to the nightly ritual of brushing her hair, one eye casting glances around the room. She felt heavy, burdened, and so unlike her self. Hunger moved through her stomach, the lack of appetite finally catching up with her.

In the distance, a muted bell tolled every few seconds. The regular, rhythmic sound of a buoy out at sea. Tonight it felt like a warning. Perhaps a storm was coming. Annabelle picked up the long bristled brush and ran her fingers over the pale boar hairs. The cool metal handle chilled her fingers, but the scratchy feel against her right hand sensitized her palm, reminding her that she was well awake and longing for warmth. She brought the brush up to her temple and stroked gently down, in time with the foggy bell down by the shore.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Brush.

Brush.

Brush.

Before her father’s death, the lady never had trouble with sleep. She slept as perfectly as a child, innocent and unburdened. But the loss of her father weighed on her, and the gain of her uncle seemed an onus too heavy to bear. He was a strange man, an inventor and eccentric, tinkering away in a homemade science lab. She rarely saw him, but she could sense him around the house, just on the other side of a door, or around the corner of a hallway. Most mornings when she wandered into the breakfast room, he would just be leaving. The remnants of his breakfast left cold on the small porcelain plate. Marmalade and salmon on toast, cut into perfect square pieces by his dedicated butler. Something about that dish, with the flecks of salt glistening on the pink striped flesh, the neon-colored gel slathered in globs, was disturbing to Annabelle, and she was relieved he was often gone before she sat to eat.

When she did see him, it was always a bit startling. Her uncle’s eyes were blackened and hallow, the result of hours toiling in dim light and a lack of sleep, but some days he looked disheveled. Once she noticed a bruise on his wrist, and other time scratches around his neck. Disturbed, Annabelle would hood her eyes, focus on the woven pattern that decorated the breakfast plate, and make plans for how she would find a better situation as soon as possible.

One morning, a rare instance that she had floated into a deep slumber, she had awoken to a shrill so loud that for days after she jumped at any sound. When she enquired the source of the shriek, the butler, Henry, had shaken his head.

“I heard nothing, Madame,” he shrugged. The old man, shriveled and skinny as a pole, probably couldn’t hear well, but Annabelle knew there was more to it. He was loyal to her uncle, a quiet companion, and an accomplice in all of his activities.

During the day, Annabelle was left to herself. On nights when she didn’t sleep, she took to napping in the library, leaning her head against the ruby velvet chaise lounge and staring at the multi-colored book spines. There was no order to the colors, and she often enjoyed saying the alternating colors in her head before gently closing her bloodshot eyes. Red, green, black, grey, blue, green, red….until darkness enclosed her thoughts.

When she slept well, it was often because her body gave in and surrendered to the constant fatigue. On those days, she stayed outside, wandering the garden and looking for life amid the dreary cold sky. The country was lovely under happier circumstances, but Annabelle found she could think of nothing but death and solitude. Each day she felt more drained.

Tonight, though, it felt like something had changed. This evening there was a presence with her. And as she stroked the brush for a final time along the hairs below her left ear, she heard it again.

Scratch.

She paused. Holding her breath, waiting to hear the sound one more time. But again the blackness swallowed the noise, and the dark loneliness engulfed her. She felt like she was playing a game of cat and mouse, unsure whether she was one or the other. The silence rung in her ears as she stared at the creams and the slick inlaid table beneath her fingers. A tick erupted in her right hand, and she unwillingly tapped a nervous finger on the wood. The hollow sound broke the silence, and Annabelle suddenly felt less alone. Whatever the noise outside her door was, she could handle it. Perhaps it was just a mouse. She glanced at the window, eyes focusing on a bare branch swaying like a disembodied hand against the grey sky. She squinted to see the details of the tree, imaging the cold buoy as it roiled in the frothy waves.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Did it sound closer this time? Annabelle shivered and stood. The silence too much for her curiosity and nerves. She slipped a cold hand around the candlestick, watching the flickering orb aglow in the dark, and opened her bedroom door. She loathed changing into her nightgown each evening and had instead taken to wearing her favorite dress most nights as a form of comfort. The soft colored gown was a cheerful sight full of happy memories of earlier times, and it made Annabelle feel deluded into thinking she hadn’t lost anything. A trick of time. A trick of mind. The door creaked open. Her feet were cool on the threshold, the gaping space of hallway lacking any warmth, but she crept on. Down the stairs, she went. Through the tapestried hall. The more she walked, the less fear she felt, and the more she could sense the stormy sea.

Scratch.

Before long, she found herself standing in the great room, 15-foot ceilings whose top she could not see beyond her little light, and listened for the direction of the sound. Again it happened.

Scratch.

Beckoning her towards a twisted stairway, Annabelle walked down the cool stone into the basement. Her fears of this space were suddenly muted, and she boldly stepped into the dark.

Scratch.

The sound was coming from beyond her uncle’s laboratory door, calling her to it. The massive barrier looked colossal, but as her hand skimmed the round brass knob, she realized it was unlocked. The urge to open it was too strong.

Scratch.

Acrid, damp air hit her nose in a rush. She smelled the sea. Something wasn’t right, but Annabelle soldiered on, the sound of the buoy ringing in her ears. The dank room looked empty, and she jumped when her toes felt a metal plate beneath her feet. A drain was in the center of the room. Suddenly the air felt very close, and the candle flickered despite the still air. Annabelle’s eyes were drawn to a dark fluid on the floor in one corner of the room. Too thick to be water, she trailed a toe along the edge of the mess, finding it sticky, much like the consistency of her Uncle’s favorite marmalade.

It was then that she noticed the eyes. Two small white eyes, with green pupils, watched her in the darkness.

Scratch.

Annabelle screamed, then all was darkness.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

She woke with a start, fully dressed on top of her bed. A clammy wet sheen covered her skin. Just a dream. Somehow she felt rested, relieved, and restored. The dreaded feeling was gone, as she felt before her father’s death. Her heart sang with the lightness and she sprung out of bed, eager to start her life anew. As she passed her vanity, a pale green flash caught her attention in the mirror, and she turned abruptly.

Her face twisted in horror as she screamed. The reflection was that of a monster. Her once shining black hair was missing in spots, revealing sickly patches of scalp. The skin that Annabelle took pride in was grey, prickled with bumps that resembled barnacles. But worst of all, her face had changed entirely. Bulbous green eyes stared back at her, the face screwed up in fear as she looked back at herself.

A nightmare was revealed.

Thanks so much for reading my spooky tale, I hope you enjoyed it! And to read my last short story, click here.