Can't run too Far

Can’t run too Far:1

Cracked and shattered, the mirror was an old antique piece, and the only value it held was a sentimental one. The owner of the antique shop had stored it in the attic, along with other useless little trinkets that no one really cared about. But in its cracked way, there was something almost magical about the mirror, Kari felt, that the owner seemed to miss entirely.2

As a child, she and her mother had come up to the dark, dimly lit attic. Remnants of past generations lay scattered on the floor; the mirror, five old sea chests, crumpled, yellowed pieces of parchment with smeared ink, rusted little trinkets and pendants, and innumerable other things that could not bring much money.  3

Purple-tinted smoke gave off a heavy, sickly sweet fragrance, pressing against tender flesh. Warmth seeped into her bones. Kari’s eyes felt heavy; and yet there was something mystical about lying on the hard, dusty floor with the wreath of smoke putting her to sleep, surrounded by history.4

Especially the mirror.5

The flickering flames of the candles were vaguely reflected in the shard’s foggy depths as golden light, furious.6

Long black hair, falling to her waist, rippled in the light. 7

The wind howled eerily as it brushed against the attic’s windowpanes; yellowed and grimed. No one cared about this place; everything hinted of rot and decay. Dust layered everything; hiding the beauty that lay beyond its rustic exterior.8

And in the attic’s old, rusty way, there was something homely about it; a warmth that hinted of sheer perfection and blissful beauty.9

The bells on the door chimed as she slipped into the light drizzle of rain. Thomas felt like laughing at her foolishness; Kari always spent too much time up there, with the old, valueless junk items he had never gotten time to get rid of. Old and grizzled, there was only one thing that he cared about; money. And Thomas was sure that money was the key to everything necessary in life.10

Kari, however, and her mother, at that, put too much value in items they claimed to be of a kind of sentimental worth. Fools, indeed. Shaking his head in amusement, lips pulled into a toothy grin, he laughed gruffly. Let people like Kari worry about foolish things like old antiques; he didn’t care about such things. His real work, other than running this old rustic shop, was much bigger, and much more important.11

Kari’s house was on the hill, old and dark. The other richer neighbors pretended to smile in amusement at her mom’s love of the old house, but Kari had heard their snide remarks. It didn’t matter if the curtains were grimy, and what once may have been perfect white lace a little shredded. There was something charming and enchanting about the house, and where it was set, with the wind making the old house creak, and the dim lights always revealing new crevices and niches they knew nothing about.12

Dinner that evening was a microwave pizza and sodas; her mother couldn’t cook very well, and her father was away too much to be able to cook anything other than fast meals. And there weren’t any restaurants anywhere near, or grocery stores; the little town lives mostly in seclusion, a different part of a different world, almost. So whenever they ventured into the nearest city, some one hundred miles to the east, they stocked up on food, like microwave pizzas and sodas.13

After dinner, her mom ran out to some friends’ house, and her father back to his work. Wherever it was, it seemed to be top-secret and very important; whenever anyone asked what exactly he did, he go quiet and reclusive, shrugging and saying it didn’t really matter. So Kari was in her room, knees up to her chest; a friend was supposed to call, sometimes around eight, and it was just seven-thirty.14

The wind sighed eerily, with a fist of rain that pattered in a rapid tattoo against the window. An old stair creaked, as if someone had stepped on it; there was a soft rustle, as if a cloak were brushing against the layers of dust that hours of sweeping never seemed to remove. Sometimes, Kari felt a little uneasy in the house, all by herself.15

Forcing herself to laugh at how foolish she was being, Kari flipped through the pages of a book, disinterested for the most part. Just some small thing her mother had found on a shelf, forgotten. The history of this old house; interesting for the most part, but in a few places too dark for her liking. Things had happened, her; mostly in the room that was now the living room, but sometimes in the kitchen. Disappearances or ghost sightings, mostly…sometimes darker and more mysterious.16

In the eighteenth century, shortly after it had been built, it had served as a hotel. At that time, the town had been more of a city, and very active. Little sketchings depicted it as it had been there; most of it hard to discern, but of what she could see, it was almost the same then as it was now. But approaching the nineteenth century, half of it was burnt tot he ground by the fire that swept through the city, and most of the guests on that wing died. It was rebuilt in five years, but not many people stayed at it, anymore; people were recorded to disappear, or have ghost sightings. What was eerie, so people had said, was that they had not had photographs of the people that had died, but had described it to someone who had known that person perfectly well, down to hair and clothes.17

People had even been murdered in it; names that meant little or nothing, but might have had some significance, once open a time. Sometimes just single people, other times whole families. The hotel had finally been closed down ten years after it had finally been rebuilt; there was no use for it, so some said. Total trash.18

Why it was left standing, she never knew, but someone else had found the book, after it had been closed down. For half a century, it had been vacant, but when it was opened again, in 1847, it was a large house, though some of it was torn down, and little things were replaced. Nothing happened much to scare the new owner out of it, ‘til three years after he had moved in.19

One morning, he had recorded, on the third day of June, he had woken up. On his wall, written in blood were these words; blood from years forgotten stain this ancient remnant from years long past. Souls drift in corridors never known before; corridors of time within this very place. Run, for the Hunter seeks again for fresh flesh and blood.20

It had scared him half to death, but his wife had laughed at it, truly amused, and insisted that it was nothing but a foolish farmer who thought to win the mansion for himself. And indeed, it seemed that way.21

Five years passed, and no sign of anything dark or deadly that would have written that message. He had recovered from his scare, and was striding about it more boldly than ever. 22

Something else had been recorded, though; too much of it was blurred for specifics, but what she did read was lucid, and dark. 23

On a dark night, the wind laughing eerily as it was doing now, there was the noise of a cloak, swishing against the staircase. The torches flickered uncertainly as the door drifted open and the wind danced among the deadly flames. Lying awake, he stared at the ceiling and its shadows in fear. All she knew was that there had been something. The rest of what had once happened was gone.24

After he had died, it was empty. For fifty-three years the villagers cast frantic eyes in that direction. Haunted screams of anguish and hunger could be heard from the old house. On the fifty-fourth year, in 1901, the sounds had stopped.25

The people of the town were still afraid of it, but as the year progressed and the first airplane was flown, they decided to open it again. The new owner, a seaman who had decided to settle down with a few of his friends and their family, had found it, and recorded that much. What happened to him one of his friends never said, but from what she could tell, it was similar to other things. Frantic and worried, were the words she could read. Frantic and worried.26

Other things were recorded, by the friends and their families. Soft swishing of cloaks on stairs on stormy nights such as these. Ghost sightings; mostly a tall, pale girl; beautiful. Golden hair wreathed with a glittering tiara of fragile, blood-tinted petals. With eyes of soft blue. Always just like that, dressed in a crimson gown flowing and rustling softly about pretty ankles as she glided like a swan into the dark room. To vivid and lucid, the wife of one of the friend’s wrote, frightened near out of her wits, to be anything but someone who had once lived and now haunted the place.27

She and her husband and two kids moved out. 28

And then, the friends had been awake on a crystal-clear night, playing chest and laughing and joking loudly, and they had heard something. A soft hiss and the swishing of a cloak on the stairs. And from the hissing they could discern a soft, throaty voice  that said, “The Hunter walks again in his ancient halls.” Only this much she could read, in hurried script; whatever had happened, they did not have time to record it.29

It had been empty for night a century, save for children breaking into it on a dare. Kari had done it; likely, Kari’s mom had to.30

And it frightened her, this place.31

What especially frightened her was that some nights she thought she saw soft blue eyes peering hesitantly from beyond the door. Once, she had found a flower petal; blood-colored and fragile. Her mother had laughed it away as coincidence. Now, Kari heard a cloak, swishing lightly against the stairs and the dust…32

Heart racing wildly, she shivered in the chill. Knees drawn up to her chest, she gazed into the darkness. There was someone there, at the doorway.33

And Kari could hear a beautiful voice, singing a twisted lullaby.34

“Hush little child, the Hunter comes,35

Blood-stained walls as old as time36

Shiv’ring in the stormy winds,37

Hush little child, Hunter merges again.38

Those that gaze on his haunted face,39

Never shall live, ah never shill live.40

Never shall breathe, ah never shall breathe;41

For the Hunter comes with death to kill.42

Hush little child , the Hunter comes;43

Nowhere to turn, now,44

Nowhere to hide;45

Hush little child…you cannot run…”46

Breathless with fright, Kari fumbled for the flashlight she kept under bed…to late, though…47

The door cracked, and light flooded the room for a brief instant.48

Then, when it had disappeared and her eyes had gotten used to it, she could see a pretty young lady. Beautiful, with eyes of soft, rich, enchanting blue and a voice like a songbird’s. And in a crimson gown. Kari tried to say something, but she held up her finger, leaning forward, eyes growing wider as a stair creaked as a foot stepped on it and the swishing of a cloak could be heard.49

“Hush! The Hunter comes. Run…”50

Kari was frozen in place, in fear. She would die. She would die!51

And as the footsteps grew louder, and the lady’s eyes grew wider, she again screamed in panic. “Run!”52

“W-Where?”53

But no one was there, and nothing stirred. The night was quiet, save for the swishing of the cloak.54

Now, she could hear a voice, much like the one described in various places. The Hunter. “Blood. Fresh blood. Too long without it…need to feast…”55

Flashlight in her hand, she turned the switch on. It barely lit the darkness. And there as no sign that she had heard anything…as she settled down on the bed, barely realizing that she had been up the whole time, she could hear the voice of the mysterious lady singing again.56

“Hush little child, the Hunter must leave,57

Too much time to live,58

Not enough too ever feed.59

Hush little child, the Hunter is gone.60

Hunter no more to haunt,61

Hunter no more to taunt you;62

Hush little child, the Hunter must leave,63

Hush little child, the Hunter is gone.”64

As she was about to go to sleep, her parents drove up; her mom returning from her friend’s for the night and her dad from his work. And as she drifted deeper into sleep, she heard another swishing on the cloak, two in a row, but becoming increasingly difficult.65

It was too lucid to not be anything but reality. And she knew that the Hunter had visited her, but that maybe for some mysterious reason, the pretty lady had somehow driven it back. She could still here her singing, too, her little lullabies.66

“Hush little child, the Hunter must flee,67

Not enough time, can’t bear the light.68

Can’t run too far, ‘cause I’m to close;69

Hunter shall be dead with the break of dawn.”70