Assignment #7: Folklore: American Folklore
Task 7: Write about being haunted by a spirit or ghost.
Warnings: I left this as open-ended as possible because it's a creepy haunting story but I don't actually want any characters to die in it. So you get to decide what happens! There is one single swear word in this, and some vague spookiness, but that's it. Fairly tame, I promise!
Black footprints crept upstairs. They were long footprints, elongated in the middle, with slight scuffs at the end that implied the existence of gnarled, sharp toenails. Each one was pressed softly into the bare floorboards.
James Potter came to the top of the stairs and looked over the balcony railing. He did not scare easily. But this was the third day that he'd awoken to find footprints in his house, footprints that no sensible creature would leave behind. They were too strange and big to belong to an animal, and equally as unlikely to belong to a person. But that didn't leave anything. He thought it might have been a prank at first, but his best friend lived many miles from here and was too busy shacking up with their other best friend to bother with something like this.
It didn't help that this was James's first time living alone. The comfort of his parent's house gleamed like a beacon of warmth and hot blackberry pie on the horizon, but it was a beacon that he unfortunately had to turn away from.
Mrs Potter would happily have kept her son at home for another season. He was as clean as any other twenty-year-old man, which was sometimes not very clean at all, and he was always very kind about her husband's cooking. He kissed her on the cheek before he left for work, and brought trinkets home when he went away. He was a good boy, she always told the neighbours, if a bit naively-spirited. He seemed to think he could change the world, when in truth he sometimes struggled to change the bedsheets. But he gave it a damn good try every time, and that was what mattered in the end.
Still, seasons changed, and James wasn't a boy anymore. He had things to do, a life to live, bedsheets to struggle with. And footprints to clean. He looked down at the staircase, riddled with scuff-marks, and sighed, scratching his head. Then he went to fetch the broom.
It wasn't as if the footprints didn't concern him. Footprints inside your house when you lived alone and the doors were always firmly locked at night would concern even the most thickset bodybuilder. He checked the windows and scanned the garden, looking for something he might have missed. There was nothing. When the footprints appeared again one early morning, he gathered his courage and swept some up on his finger. He'd thought it was dirt, or something old and rotten bleeding through the floorboards, maybe, but it wasn't.
It was soot. Charcoal-dark soot, soft to the touch. He rubbed his fingers together to get rid of it, only for the stain to spread, mingling with his thumbprint. The door to the living room stood ajar, and crossed the hall to push it all the way open, frowning. A shudder went up his spine, although he couldn't say why.
He'd not really spent much time inside his house yet. Work kept him busy, and when he wasn't working, he was coaching a small team of triumphant, energetic five-year-olds in a little league at the local park. The living room felt cold and unlived in. There was a rug spread out in the middle, borrowed from the Potter's loft. One corner was curled up like aged paper. He folded it down with the side of his foot and turned reluctantly to face the fireplace.
It was an old fireplace, riddled with rust-red tiles and depictions of minotaurs caught mid-roar. Some were cracked and faded. The grate was missing, and there was no firewood. A poker caught his eye; it lay discarded on the ground, abandoned near the darkness seeping down through the flute. As his fingers touched the dusty mantlepiece, a rough, hoarse caw echoed down the chimney. It sounded almost like a cough, or stifled laughter. He stilled. There was a rustle that sounded like feathers, and another caw filled the room. This one was softer. A feather fell down the chimney, and his shoulders unbunched.
It was probably just an odd bird or two. A bird with long feet and silent wings. It explained the stretch of clean carpet between the chimney and the bottom of the stairs, if the bird was flying out each evening.
If James was very honest, it was the shoddiest explanation of all time. But it was comforting, so he stuck with it, and hurried away to get ready for work.
At roughly quarter past five on a Tuesday morning, James woke up. He was an early riser by nature—if nature was something that could be drilled into a person by way of countless football practices at dawn all throughout school. But quarter past five was pushing it, even for him.
He sat up in bed and stared blankly around the room. The sun was only just rising, and everything looked ordinary in the morning light. There were clothes heaped on the chair that sat in the corner of the room. His wardrobe doors were open, spewing shoes and wrinkled shirts on the rug. A dirty football kit languished in one corner, and though the sheer volume of paperwork spread out on his desk was undoubtedly grim to look at, it was hardly sinister enough to wake him up.
Downstairs, the shrill noise of the phone ringing cut through the sleepy silence. James jerked upright abruptly, having sunk into the mattress during his observations. He got out of bed and staggered across the room, groping for the door handle.
The door opened at the barest touch. He hadn't quite shut it the night before, it seemed. He blinked the last of the sleep out of his eyes and shuffled downstairs to answer the phone.
"Darling! I was calling to see if you'd had any luck about the new job position."
"What?" James squinted at the cold kitchen tile under his feet, the phone jammed under his ear. "Mum, I know you're excited, but it's too early to talk about work. Couldn't you have called in the day?"
"What are you talking about, love? It's nearly nine."
James glanced first at the clock, which pointed patiently at the number nine, and then at the window, where the sky was blue and beaming with sunlight. The noise of people on the street reached him through the glass, all at once, as though he'd been listening through a sheet of cotton up until then.
"Oh," he said. "Right. Must have dozed off, I guess."
It didn't feel as though he'd dozed off. Unease filled him, but he brushed it away. What else could it have been?
"Are you sure you're doing alright?" said Mrs Potter keenly, not for the first time this week. "You're eating well? I've got some casseroles from your father that he wants me to bring over, although I told him you're perfectly capable of feeding yourself these days. Oh, and Bathilda rang earlier, she said something about an old book she thinks you might like—lord knows why, it sounds like a load of old tripe if you ask me, but it's best to go along with the woman. She's getting on a bit, Bathilda is."
"Pushing three hundred now!"
"That's your father, he said she's pushing—"
"I heard him," James cut in, rolling his eyes fondly. "Say hi from me. Hey, I was wondering—the people who told you about this house, did they say anything funny about it?"
"Something funny?" Mrs Potter sounded puzzled; he could easily picture the little wrinkle between her brow. "Not that I can recall, dear. There was something about the roof and the chimney being a little iffy, but your father left some contact cards on the downstairs table when we moved you in. One of those should be able to come and have a poke about."
"Right," James said, a little weakly. "I'll have a look then. I've got to go, mum, for real this time."
"Alright, well, you just let me know about the casseroles, dear."
He promised to do so and hung up, slinging the phone back onto the hook. It was a bulky piece of plastic, hanging in the kitchen, and the dial was a little yellow with age. Looking at it made him feel a little sick.
"The chimney," he murmured to himself, rapping his knuckles against the wall. "Right."
Birds was the answer he'd gotten comfortable with. Birds in the chimney, birds with strange scaly feet and grubby mannerisms, leaving soot everywhere. That settled the unease in him, in a vague sort of way. It didn't explain why the living room door gave him shivers. It didn't explain the cold patches here and there, or the way he suddenly froze as though pinned by an invisible gaze. It explained the footsteps, but only if you looked at the explanation from a distance.
The thing was, he didn't really want to look any closer.
James startled awake. He didn't know why or what had woken him, but the whole world felt like a dream. Moonlight spilled in through the gap in the curtains like milk, soiling the carpet. His thoughts came slowly, fed to him like droplets from a syringe. The bedsheets at the bottom of the bed were twisted and tangled like a handful of amorous snakes, but he felt cool, not hot or clammy like he'd had a nightmare. He sat up, frowning blearily.
The handle of the door turned slowly back into place, squeaking quietly into a resting position.
James froze. The room seemed to shrink. He stared, wide-eyed, at the door, refusing to blink. If he blinked, the handle might turn again. If he blinked, something might come in. If he blinked, he might discover that something was already inside, and he'd caught it right as it was about to go back out again.
A cloud shifted in front of the moon, blocking out the light. The room turned grey and murky, and James shook himself out of his daze. He climbed out of bed and went to the door, pushing the handle once or twice. The rattling noise put him strangely at ease. Opening the door revealed the empty landing and the banister where he'd hung his suede bomber jacket. It was a gift from Sirius, his best friend. It was untouched. No matter how hard he peered at the faint shadows, there was no sign of anybody around.
James shut the door firmly, tried the handle once more, and went back to bed, shivering at the sudden spot of cold.
The truth is that no matter how many oddities a human being might experience throughout their life, only one or two genuine ones will ever be shared with another human being. Some strange happenings get spilled in rowdy pubs when the clock strikes eight and the beer overflows, and the story follows suit; shadows and strangers on the street and smashed picture frames. Those stories are sheepishly laughed off the next day, accompanied by an embarrassed, insincere resolution to drink a little less next time.
Some stories are a little more cautious, a little more wildly afraid: being followed, faces in the dark, the sensation that something is out to get you, a curse or a bad omen. Those stories usually receive the well-meaning head-tilt and the gentle question of: "Are you okay?" And those stories usually never see the light of day again, brushed under the rug with some tea and sandwiches and a discussion of what was on the telly last night.
And then there are stories like the one James wanted to tell. Stories without a beginning or an end, and somewhat missing a middle too. The bare bones of it was this: soot-black footprints on the stairs that were longer than usual and sometimes vanished by the time he came back with a broom; a handle that was always turned down when he woke up in the dead of night, like something had frozen in the middle of trying to get in or out; cold spots and losing time and the faint, persistent feeling of being watched.
"You can stop looking at me like that," James said irately. "I already know it sounds mad."
The rancour in the pub swallowed up his voice, but the general gist of it got across. It was a busy night, crowded with people. They'd managed to squeeze their way into a sticky table on the far side, next to an old gambling machine and a forgotten coat that had seen better days. It was hardly a comfortable place, but one didn't need to be comfortable to drink oneself into a stupor and spill mad stories to one's friends.
Sirius and Remus shared a glance. They were crammed in together on the far side of the table. They were careful not to touch too tenderly in public, though James had no doubt that their hands were tangled together under the table.
"I wouldn't necessarily call it mad," Remus said diplomatically.
"I would, mate," Sirius said, shrugging. He shrank back when Remus hit him in the arm, but he didn't look one bit apologetic. "What? It does sound mad! And he's self-aware, so I don't know why you're hitting me."
"You should know hitting doesn't work by now," James said, and Remus tipped his beer in concession of the point.
"Are you alright though?" Sirius said, a little more subdued. "Maybe it's just first-house jitters? I know I was jumping at every little thing when I moved into the flat, and I had Moony there to protect me."
"Thank heavens for that," Remus said dryly. "Otherwise you might have been slaughtered by the sweet little cat that lives next door."
"I've not been doing a good enough job in the bedroom if you think that's what sweet means." Sirius shuddered dramatically. "That thing is a beast."
"Another word that I'm not sure translates well to the bedroom."
"Oi!"
"Seriously though," Remus said, turning away from his indignant, sulking partner. "Are you okay?"
James tipped back the rest of his beer and smiled, unwilling to dwell on it any longer. He told himself that it was easier to ignore the cold unpleasantness of his house now that he was in a busy pub, with his best friends sitting across from him, and alcohol burning pleasantly in his throat.
"Yeah, I'm alright," he said. "I'm just being an idiot. Like Sirius said, it's first-house jitters. Once I get the place feeling more homely, it won't be so bad."
Remus met his eyes, and James tried not to wince. His smile felt as plastic as his damn phone. If there was anyone who might call him out on his obvious fibs, it would be Remus John Lupin.
Sirius understood James better than anyone, but their closeness meant they were more than happy to enable each other. Sirius let him get away with pretty much anything, from telling tiny fibs to rotting in bed on terrible days, and he would keep doing it because James did the very same thing for him. Remus would do pretty much anything for either of them, but he outright refused to enable their idiocy or shoulder their emotional baggage. In fact, he was a keen advocate of forcing them to rifle through their emotional baggage.
Looking into those piercing green eyes, soft with concern, he knew that Remus didn't believe him when he said he was alright. But "If you say so," was all he said, as he turned to ply Sirius with more alcohol before his tantrum could really begin.
James resolved not to mention it again, but he rather wished Remus had looked a little deeper.
The second stair from the top always creaked, and the floorboards were old, unpolished devils that groaned with every breeze. As the weeks went on, he started to learn the sounds of the house, and which noise went where. The pipes and the beams were old friends at this point. James never did get around to making it more homely, but he did pay close attention to the mould growing in the bedroom across from him. It was the guest bedroom, and he didn't use it for anything other than storing two cardboard boxes of scratched vinyl records, but it was still a problem. Winter was closing in, and he didn't want to spend it coughing and wheezing, breathing in spores.
Maybe it was the mould causing his sleepless nights. At this point, James would take any answer he could get.
On his day off, he went down to the hardware store and came back with two buckets, a handful of paintbrushes, and several packets of wallpaper paste. Mrs Potter talked him through the fairly simple process of cleaning mould and sealing the wall, and then wallpapering too. Despite the simple process, the phone call lasted fourty-seven minutes.
It felt like it took longer than the process itself. When he was done, he threw open the windows to let out the acrid chemical scent and stepped back, surveying his work. It was a bit patchy in places. The wallpaper had bubbled. But the overall effect was much nicer than looking at mould oozing out of the walls. He went to bed feeling satisfied, confident that soon the house would feel like a home.
At quarter past three, the bedroom door slammed shut. James shot up in bed, a gasp caught in his throat. The handle of the door was dancing up and down, rattling so hard he thought it might snap off.
"Right, that's it!" James yelled.
The door handle stopped moving the moment his bare feet touched the floor. Footsteps skittered away from the door. Heart in his throat, James flung off the covers and swore, skidding out of the room.
The door to the guest bedroom dangled from its hinges, and he could see the mess beyond it. The newly-decorated walls were now black with soot. Wallpaper hung in tatters, scraped and gouged from the walls. Bits of it floated in the air, drifting in soft whorls. He stood quite still, caught in a silent snowstorm of shredded wallpaper. Some settled in his hair. Some fell like white ash over the banister, collecting in heaps on the ground floor.
"You fucker," James whispered.
Anger made him light-headed. Stupid, really, for this to be the thing that pushed him over the edge. But weeks of broken sleep and uneasiness had combined to form one seething ball of irritation, and this was the last straw. He stalked down the stairs. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. A hoarse caw came from the living room, but it sounded mocking, like rough, scraping laughter. Whatever it was, it was no longer playing at being a bird.
He paid no mind to the cold shiver that brushed over him when he pushed open the door. The room blurred around him; he caught up the poker that lay abandoned on the floor and held it tightly in his fist.
"I know you're in there," James snapped. "I don't know what you are, or what your problem is, but you can get the hell out of my house. I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not going to leave just because you're being an ass!"
Rustling and more soft, mocking laughter. The call of a bird. James throttled the poker in his grip and ducked inside the fireplace, peering up into the darkness of the chimney.
White eyes peered back at him.
Huge, soot-black wings filled the chimney. He didn't know what it was, if it was a demon or a ghost or some kind of malicious spirit, but it was monstrous. Its eyes glowed like the white-hot centre of a flame. It seemed bigger than the space, as though it had blossomed out of the dark, as though it was the dark. Feathers floated down. One landed on his cheek; he tried to reach up and brush it away, but he couldn't move. He was frozen, caught in a half-hunched position, fear rooting him to the spot.
More feathers fell. James opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was soot. The dark thing opened its mouth and laughed and laughed and laughed.
The poker fell to the ground with a clatter, and lay there, abandoned, in the dark.
Thank you for reading! I figured you could read it as James dropping the poker as he finally starts to run away, or the spooker lifting him up into the dark.
[Word Count: 3,399]