Faith
flash fiction by Damian Titchener
In the dark, between the intermittent light, my fingers trace through the grime soaked walls, leading me deeper, hurling memory from a place I dare not tread – but must.
Even though it has been years, the smell of jasmine and honey scented candles hang heavy in the air. Mother would spend hours crafting the perfect scent, tolling away at her artistry in these dark chambers.
History replays itself, a kaleidoscope of images folding into each other, distorted and never coming into focus, memories nearly lost to time but never far from my thoughts.
Flash! I see the family that once lived here, my family.
Flash! Father is reading his newspaper on the front porch.
Flash! My sister and I are playing hopscotch.
Flash! Mother stands at the window gazing upon us.
Butterflies dance in my stomach creating a symphony of instability
Flee from this place, they sing.
Flee and never come back.
Though I could not see it then, shadows dance around us, an omen of things to come.
Clutching the cross at my chest, warm calm embraces me, facing my external fears is easier than facing my past; horrors visited upon me in youth have never gone away. I see the blood on the stairs, the walls, painted by a woman who promised to protect and nurture.
Here the memories focus, here the nightmare begins.
The basement door creaked open, despair shrouded her, tears welled and with a soft pleading forgiveness she drew closer to us. I could never fathom her reasons for doing it. When she picked up the knife everything changed. Father never saw it; she held the knife close until he stood inches from her, mother moved quickly and as a tree falls so did father.
The thud still echoes in my mind, his body motionless, a red circle growing beneath him she came after me and my sister next, the game of hopscotch no more than a memory replaced with weak bladders and heavy stomachs.
Our flight from the house separated us; I found refuge within the woods, once a place of scary stories and hungry bears, the leaves and branches became a barrier against the darkness of the house. I never passed through that white picket fence again, or flew up the stairs to my room in a race against my sister. I never saw that place again, but in a way I never left. Footstep after footstep brings me to the neighbour’s house. Men with badges came, they asked me things I did not want to remember, unable to figure out a mystery that was beyond my own reasoning I could only sob and hope things would go back to the morning of hopscotch and the promise of sweets in the afternoon.
Weeks later as I strolled with my Aunt in a town far from my old home, with a sweet cake in my left hand and her hand in my right, I overheard the hushed mutterings of the townsfolk in the streets, not realising that I could hear them, the grisly details emerged of my sister and mothers fate
Sliced open, she hung herself, gutted the father, dark offerings.
The years tumbled into each other, faded photos are all I have left, but the slumber of sleep brings dark and terrible things. The shadows call to me, wanting me to return, in the underlying current of those twisted dark mutterings a small voice talks to me
Come back, save us, help me.
Their souls are trapped here, taken and held by something not of this world. I’ve come to free them and myself, for though I did not die here my soul has stayed here as well. The entity that corrupted my mother is here and it knows me and wants me…to feed on me even now.
A man of the cloth resolute and unbreakable, here to cleanse an entity of undefined will.
Even though it has been years, the smell of jasmine and honey scented candles hang heavy in the air. Mother would spend hours crafting the perfect scent, tolling away at her artistry in these dark chambers.
History replays itself, a kaleidoscope of images folding into each other, distorted and never coming into focus, memories nearly lost to time but never far from my thoughts.
Flash! I see the family that once lived here, my family.
Flash! Father is reading his newspaper on the front porch.
Flash! My sister and I are playing hopscotch.
Flash! Mother stands at the window gazing upon us.
Butterflies dance in my stomach creating a symphony of instability
Flee from this place, they sing.
Flee and never come back.
Though I could not see it then, shadows dance around us, an omen of things to come.
Clutching the cross at my chest, warm calm embraces me, facing my external fears is easier than facing my past; horrors visited upon me in youth have never gone away. I see the blood on the stairs, the walls, painted by a woman who promised to protect and nurture.
Here the memories focus, here the nightmare begins.
The basement door creaked open, despair shrouded her, tears welled and with a soft pleading forgiveness she drew closer to us. I could never fathom her reasons for doing it. When she picked up the knife everything changed. Father never saw it; she held the knife close until he stood inches from her, mother moved quickly and as a tree falls so did father.
The thud still echoes in my mind, his body motionless, a red circle growing beneath him she came after me and my sister next, the game of hopscotch no more than a memory replaced with weak bladders and heavy stomachs.
Our flight from the house separated us; I found refuge within the woods, once a place of scary stories and hungry bears, the leaves and branches became a barrier against the darkness of the house. I never passed through that white picket fence again, or flew up the stairs to my room in a race against my sister. I never saw that place again, but in a way I never left. Footstep after footstep brings me to the neighbour’s house. Men with badges came, they asked me things I did not want to remember, unable to figure out a mystery that was beyond my own reasoning I could only sob and hope things would go back to the morning of hopscotch and the promise of sweets in the afternoon.
Weeks later as I strolled with my Aunt in a town far from my old home, with a sweet cake in my left hand and her hand in my right, I overheard the hushed mutterings of the townsfolk in the streets, not realising that I could hear them, the grisly details emerged of my sister and mothers fate
Sliced open, she hung herself, gutted the father, dark offerings.
The years tumbled into each other, faded photos are all I have left, but the slumber of sleep brings dark and terrible things. The shadows call to me, wanting me to return, in the underlying current of those twisted dark mutterings a small voice talks to me
Come back, save us, help me.
Their souls are trapped here, taken and held by something not of this world. I’ve come to free them and myself, for though I did not die here my soul has stayed here as well. The entity that corrupted my mother is here and it knows me and wants me…to feed on me even now.
A man of the cloth resolute and unbreakable, here to cleanse an entity of undefined will.
About the writer
Damien Titchener is an enthusiastic nerd, a writer, and a beloved dad. Drawing inspiration from the pulp fiction era of the 1920’s, his work centres on the world that lies beyond our normal perceptions. His first piece of writing “Birthday” was published by Vine Leaves Press in 2017, in the last volume of the Vine Leaves Literary Journal.
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