The House
Lee Fields
©2004 Copyright

It is thick and black. It writhes around, screaming. It’s fangs are gooey with mud and tar. It tries to rip and tear itself free. It drags itself up from the constricting black mass and reels it’s ugly, oblong head. It’s long slimy tongue lolls out from between razor sharp incisors. It belches a fuming, putrid odor that rises from the depths of her bowels and escapes her chapped, raw lips.

Fear has seized her, locking her chest with the iron grip of a cold fist. The chilled air scorches her lungs and stings her bleary eyes. Her clinched hands are small cubes of ice. Her numb legs stumble along, dragging her against her will through a tangled web of bone thin trees. The limbs claw at her face and trench coat as she comes to a rise in the forest trail.

Her dry throat clenches and the ground underfoot threatens to drag her down and bury her under a layer of dead leaves. She gazes out over the clearing at it. It returns her glare as it sits there, plump and grotesque, beaconing her.

Closer still, her tired feet drag her along. A silent wretched sob tries to crawl out of her throat. Her extremities shake uncontrollably and her nose runs a phlegm filled red. It’s shadow swallows her small frame whole in one slimy gulp.

The old farm house that has brought her here, screaming and crying, still has an old civil war cannon ball lodged in its wooden frame like some long dead eyeball. She feels like it’s looking at her, through her. She stumbles as she climbs the front steps, crashing her knee into the ancient wood. Warm blood oozes out and soaks her pants leg. She grits her teeth. Control. Focus. The only thing that will save her is herself. Her stomach churns in protest, flopping around in her abdomen like some dying animal. She gags on churning vomit in the back of her mouth as she crosses the threshold and enters the black house.

The cannonball rotates ever so slightly as she disappears within. The wood of the house moans in the frigid breeze. It is time to feast.