Dark clouds, aided by a howling wind, speedily rolled over the obsidian-black sky. The looming giants of vapour blocked out the moon and stars. From their shadowy underside they occasionally released a deluge of cold, wet rain.
As was to be expected the clouds had been nosily-watching the events of a disturbance unfold. The fracas had begun in a quaint, thatched cottage miles below their lofty vantage.
The tiny residence was tucked away in a dark, swaying forest that looked not unlike a sea of ferociously-turbulent waves.
The sky dwellers had been drifting overhead when the first signs of a story were spotted. They listened to the crashes and raised voices from within the tiny dwelling. Unsurprisingly the ruckus quickly apprehended their interest and they were soon chatting amongst themselves (as clouds do when enticed by a gripping tale) about the possible repercussions of what had been said.
Then, all of a sudden, the screaming started...
Blood curdling cries ripped through the darkness and alerted all who could hear that something terrible was taking place. The argument had escalated into something far more deadly than first appeared. The screams were the kind of soul-churning wails that they had heard before, and did not wish to hear again. This type of cry always foreshadowed wicked events. Murder had stained the night sanguine.
The clouds were now making a quick getaway; hastily retreating to the nearby settlement of Bellflower. Though their actions appeared to be seasoned with cowardice, their true intentions were honourable. By hook or by crook they would get help for the screaming woman; though how this would be accomplished was, for the moment, beyond them.
To their relief, as they approached the village, a small wisp of wind whistled past them. He was carrying one of the terrifying-screams in his arms.
They waved and cheered him on as he dove toward the lamp-lit street. The mountains of moisture congratulated each other on a job well done (not that they actually did anything) and with the panic over they slowed down to see the next part of the story unfold.
The wisp paid no heed to the clouds; he made a habit of avoiding beings with an over-inflated ego (clouds definitely fell into this category).
Wisps are made of wind; as such they are free to gale across the world. Their existence takes many forms; from a gentle breeze in a sun-drenched valley to a sail-ripping storm. Every gust, gale or draft was a listening wisp.
A wisp has only one duty to fulfil on his free-flowing pilgrimage; a cherished and sacred task undertaken by all. They carry the calls of The Universe and transport them to wherever that sound must be heard. This night was no exception and the cry he carried was important...it had purpose beyond the norm.
He was transfixed with his mission to find a soul who would listen to what he had heard. The scream struggled in his grip but he held fast. He was almost there…
Below him he spied a man emerging from a green van. He dove toward the gent’s unprotected ear and dropped the cry, like a plane unleashes a bomb. The wisp released the scream and flew on. As he cleared the scene he glanced back over his shoulder to see the payload land.
Joseph King had just locked his van door when a cold gust of wind hit him in the side of his head. He was about to curse the weather they were having when he heard a woman's scream echo down the street.
He looked around for the source of the noise and panic filled his chest. It wasn't a nice scream, the kind you hear when someone is having fun. This was the scared kind. It was one of those blood-curdling sounds, the kind that rooted you to the spot and made your blood run cold.
Joseph walked quickly towards the top of the street. His mounting panic, now felt as a lump in his throat, increased as the shrieks continued. The tear-jerking cries ripped through the night, like nails down a chalkboard. He looked in the direction they were coming from trying to see into the blackness of the forest.
He felt someone beside him, a hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see Martha Trotter, a large lady who ran the local pub, standing next to him. She wore her waxed-jacket over a pink dressing gown.
“What's going on Joe? What’s out there?” she asked, fear causing her voice to quake.
“I not certain what it is, but I think it's coming from Nova's place,” he replied with a similar tremble.
They looked into each other’s eyes and an unspoken conversation took place. The exchange was short and urgent. Joe looked at Martha and then at the forest. Martha looked at Joe and nodded towards her car which was already pointing in the right direction. Joe nodded and the decision was made.
“You got a gun?” she questioned.
“No! Of course I don't have a gun! I'm a builder, Martha,” Joe replied. He was more than a little shocked. “What would I need a gun for?” he continued as another scream filled the air.
“Well...for a situation like this,” Martha retorted. She turned toward her house and shouted at the dishevelled boy in the doorway. “Marshal! Go and tell Sergeant Cooper we need him at Nova's house!”
He ran off barefooted down the street without saying anything in reply. Martha quickly moved to her car.
“Come on, Joe. I’m not going there on my own.”
Her words urged him to pick up the pace and join her. He ran to the car and jumped in the passenger seat. Moments later the car sped off towards Darkfern Cottage.
***
Rose sat in Joe's kitchen listening, transfixed in horror, as he recalled the story. She was shaking from head to toe. She didn’t cope well with scary stories as it was, especially when they involved blood-curdling screams.
“Then what happened?” she gasped. She trembled and her teacup rattled in its saucer.
“Are you sure you want me to continue? It's not very nice. I mean... The next bit is pretty strange. I don’t want to upset you.”
He looked concerned as he said this, his eyes giving away that he didn't really want to remember what had happened.
“Please, I need to know what happened at the cottage,” Rose said. She took his hand to offer support and looked him in the eye. “Please, Joe. Tell me what happened next.”
***
Harmony opened the door and entered the room. Though quite small and dusty the bedroom had a nice, comfortable feel. Old, faded rugs covered most of the floor and a pair of threadbare curtains framed a filthy window. The view looked out over the back garden and into the forest beyond.
She calculated that she was over the kitchen. Though, admittedly, the layout of the cottage was confusing to say the least. The fact that there was an entire second floor, concealed from view, was enough to make her head hurt when she thought about it.
The sun’s shine was muted by the grimy glass; the glare dispersed into a warm, cosy glow that illuminated the chamber just enough to see. Against the far wall was an ancient, wrought iron bed which looked like it belonged in a museum.
A long mirror, mounted to the wall in a wooden frame, sat next to the bed. Its silvery surface reflected a mottled version of Harmony. Her clothes looked filthy and her hair was a mess. She made a mental note to clean the bathroom first when Rose got back with supplies.
Harmony allowed her gaze to drift around, taking in the atmosphere and decor. Apart from the severe lack of dusting the room looked to be in good order.
A wooden wardrobe, oversized and ornately carved, stood next to the doorway. Harmony stood in front of it and opened the two doors.
Inside she found a few old dresses, hanging like sad remnants from a time gone by. Fragile and decayed with age they looked more like rags than the once quite elegant garments that they claimed to be. She moved them aside carefully and examined the back panel.
She pushed gently in the hopes it too would reveal a secret compartment. In an ideal world the closet would have contained answers about the mysterious house, or better yet it could have led to another world (lamp-posts and fawns optional).
When the wardrobe proved to be nothing special she giggled softly to herself. The laughter was tinged with disappointment. This room was just another dead end.
Harmony closed the closet doors and walked over to the bed. She sat down heavily, the springs moaned. She sighed sulkily; her frustration disturbing the clouds of dust revealed by the sunlight.
She looked at the doorknob in her hand and then scanned the rest of the room. There was nothing in the house that lacked a handle. It felt like she had searched everywhere. All that effort and no reward was most unsatisfactory. It didn’t seem fair.
“Nothing...nothing at all,” she grumbled out loud to the assembled furniture. She turned the object of her defeat over in her palm. Harmony threw the handle into the air and readied her hands to catch.
Her eyes followed the golden doorknob as it sailed upwards and turned, hanging for an oddly-long moment at the summit. The words written on it caught her eye and she whispered, "Latro Gradus.”
It dropped quickly. The shiny, metal surface passed through a sunbeam on its descent. A resultant flash of light blinded her for a moment. The handle made contact with her outstretched hand and then immediately bounced out.
CRASH!!!
The doorknob crashed against the mirror. Harmony instinctively covered her ears and scrunched up her eyes as the sound of shattering glass filled the room.
“Well. That's seven years bad luck,” she noted, turning to assess the damage.
The faded, silver surface lay shattered on the rug-covered floor. Tiny shards sparkled in the dim light. Spilt diamonds cut through a sky of dust to glint like stars. As Harmony traversed the strewn shards she picked out constellations in their splay.
All of a sudden she looked into one reflective sliver and saw something she had not expected. She looked up at the mirror’s frame still mounted to the plaster. Nestled within the wooden edging was a small door.
The pint-sized portal stood no more two feet high. Its façade was made of a dark wood inlayed with a pattern of golden leaves. The leaves spiralled from the outer edge in toward the centre. The middle of the design was simply a hole, a notch in the wood that looked to be lacking some element.
Harmony didn't want to take her eyes away from the door, fearful that it might disappear if she did. Her hand felt about on the floor for the doorknob. Her fingers gingerly, tentatively danced between the mirrored shards like a skater on a frozen lake. All the while Harmony stared at the little door unable to look away. Time seemed to be slowing. The air became thick and heavy. She could not take her eyes off the door nor could she blink...or even breathe.
Everything around her was diminishing. Blackness crept in from the corners of her eyes until nothing was left but the door. Then, just as she was fading, just as her last bit of strength was fleeting, her fingers twitched against the doorknob.