Bedroom

She enters into her childhood bedroom.

Logically, she knows the House has crafted this room, molded it, somehow, into a perfect replica. But emotionally, she cannot separate the recreation from the reality. Of all the rooms, of all the memories, out of every insidious recollection the House has dredged up, this is by far the worst.

This is stepping through time. The years folding back upon themselves, collapsing decades to bring her back to this moment. Despite everything she’s tried to forget, tried to crush into tiny fractals, her childhood bedroom remains firmly in her memories. A full colour recollection.

If she closes her eyes she knows she’d be able to list everything single detail down to the cracks in the plaster. Every single hole from a misplaced nail, every scratch in the floor from rearranging her furniture, everything waylaid stuffed animal that never quite made it to the closet or the donation bin.

Looking around, her image becomes more precise; this is her room as it was just before she left. The posters reflect the taste of her fifteen-year-old self; bands and actors she’d grown to admire covering the pale pink walls, replacing the more childish drawings she’d chose as décor.

A small desk sits in one corner of the room, surface housing stacks of books and an ornate glass holder of pens. A matching wooden chair is tucked in beneath; an old pillow her mom gave her thrown on the seat for added comfort. She remembers spending hours at that desk doing homework, drawing, writing. Daydreaming about a life outside the four walls of this room.

Her wardrobe sits against the opposite wall, a mismatching wash of wood from the desk and the floor. It was a hand me down from one of her older cousins, furniture they were getting rid of in preparation to move away for school. A lot of her things were rehomed from elsewhere, a hodgepodge of unwanted, or unneeded pieces.

The bed is to her left. She knows its there even though she refuses to look at it. Too many memories, too many ghosts. If she looks now, she knows that everything she’s tried to bury will threaten to surface. She can feel hands inside her head, scraping against the barrier like a misbehaving dog. Begging to be let out. Out. Out.

She walks towards her desk instead. Her intention isn’t to linger but when her attention is drawn to the familiar journal sitting on its surface, she pulls out the chair and sits heavily. Her hands hover like nervous birds over the dark book; flitting above, too afraid to land. A strange mix of reverence and revulsion ties her stomach in knots, desire and disgust warring with each other to inform her next move. Land or take flight?

The cause of her turmoil comes in the shape of a diary. Her diary. The childhood book housing every single confession, every single secret, every single dark moment that she couldn’t bear to keep housed inside her. Fingers finally settle, brushing lightly over the smooth faux leather, the familiar buttery feel of the well-worn cover. She had thought the journal lost -discarded during her frantic packing when all she could focus on was leave and now- but clearly the House has found it. Or a mockery of it, at least.

Her index finger slips inside, toying with the idea of opening the diary. She cannot remember the words so much as the emotions poured into its pages. Shame, disgust, sorrow, desperation. Her chest tightens in anticipation of the bloodshed contained within these pages, the raw, unfiltered distress, the continuous calls for help.

Flipping the cover open she’s met with a blank page. She turns to the next, and the next, and the next, but each page revealed is untouched. Pristine. Relief floods her, loosens the knot in her core, eases the squeeze behind her ribs. She takes the book between both hands, lifting to better sort through the pages -just in case something lies waiting further within, some haunt perched to leap from the pages. The movement causes a loose sheet of paper to slip free and flutter down to the table: the ghost she’s been dreading.

Most of the page has been blacked out with violent scratches of ink. A pen cutting through words over and over again, line indented so deeply it’s a wonder they haven’t torn clean through the page. She can see some words have survived the destruction, but her eyes skirt over them, avoiding what they may reveal. She’s not ready, not yet.

Her gaze falls to a torn-out section at the bottom right of the paper. She traces the soft, fibrous edges with her finger idly before something clicks into place. Pulling the folded note from her pocket, she smooths it out as best she can and lines it up with the missing section. A perfect fit.

Call mom. Call mom. Call mom.

Suddenly the reminder has teeth; it has grown, big and powerful and poised to bight. She can feel the awareness plunging into her, canines breaking through flesh and muscle and bone. She remembers, oh god she remembers.

The tremulous quality of her mother’s voice; old beyond her memories, a voice changed by time. Nearly a stranger but not so removed -not for lack of trying. Tinny through the phone as she listened to the message.

I saw honey, I read them all. I knew, all along I knew and I never…I should have done something. I-

Her eyes flit to the only two sentences that remain untouched:

Today father came to my room. I don’t like the way he touches me.

Her hand flies to her mouth too late to stop the spray of bile. Black spills onto the desk, coats the paper, her hand, running hot down her chin and neck. She stands too fast, toppling the chair in her haste. She’s panting, gagging, bending over to retch again and again and again. Gelatinous darkness oozes from her mouth, from her nose, as she expels the rotten contents of her stomach. The sick splats against the hardwood in a coagulated mess. Fetid just like the House. Hidden destitution.

She doesn’t mean to back up as much as she does, but the hollow of her knees catch on the edge of her old bed, tripping her up. She lands on the mattress heavily, the unnatural softness yielding beneath her with painful intimacy. Phantom insects crawl under her skin, moving in a sick swarm as they writhe just below the surface. Her stomach lurches once more, threatening to release more of her rot, but she manages to swallow down her gorge.

Arms extend from the mattress like grotesque weeds, shooting up with frightening speed. They wrap around her tightly, sinching like rope pulled too tightly around her legs, and torso, and arms. She jackknifes in the hold, struggling against the sudden confinement with a sudden burst of energy.

“Stop!” She shrieks, “stop, stop, stop, stop!”

Her begging is futile. She is pulled; sinking through the mattress, through the frame, straight to the underbelly of the bed. It’s a small space and her adult body hardly fits beneath. Rustling beside her draws her panicked attention, her chin scraping against the floor as she turns her head.

She’s met with herself. Eleven, long hair trailing the floor, dark eyes fathomless in the shadow of the bed, wet and afraid. Her child self brings a trembling finger to her lips, a plea for quiet. She clamps her mouth shut, nods.

A door somewhere opens. Loud footsteps echo, grow close. Enter. Her breathing becomes erratic, shivering puffs of air bouncing off the floor and back into her face. Damp, moist, sour. She can feel the same panic radiating from the smaller body beside her. The frantic beating of their frightened hearts increasing in tandem.

Black socked feet materialize in the gap beneath the bed. She looks up the dark trousers to where the person ends mid shin. He’s here.

She knows what’s going to happen. Clenching her eyes shut, she refuses to watch the scene unfold. She hears him shift, hears the choked off squeak from the child as her arm is grabbed, feels the rough burn of wood as he removes her from her hiding spot.

The mattress above her head groans and everything inside her head shuts off.