The House Without Windows

The InBetween

The sound of the old gramophone squealing to life in the living room woke Everett in the dead silence of the night. In the all consuming dark, something in his surroundings didn't seem natural. A draught wound it's way into the bedroom. Odd, given the otherwise silence and vault-like nature of the bedroom. Its cool presence sunk deep into the marrow of his bone, and briefly he could hear high winds howl outside the walls of the house. Only as time wore thin, Everett began to question whether it were truly the wind. The pitch was too high, too human in its characteristics, in the way the sound grew hoarse as seconds marched by. Growing up, he had of course heard the dozens of myths that held onto every forest and river in an iron claw vice. La Llorona, the vvitch, wendigoes and skinwalkers and other unearthly presences too demonic to tease the thought of.

His eyes slid to the bedside table, vague in its silhouette. Barely, he managed to retrieve the lighter from the evening before. The flint struck a few times before the fuel caught properly. A soft amber glow filled the room, but it was far from friendly. The posts of the bed frame cast looming shadows across the walls. Gnarled cedar produced figures that danced with the flame. Perhaps these were the monsters in the dark that had been told of for centuries. Once more the squeal of the gramophone filled the space between his thoughts. Cold sweat clung to the hairs on the back of his neck, slicking it down and causing his shirt to stick to him. It was cold, but the supposed wind and mysterious appearance of a broken gramophone shook Everett far more than it should've.

A small heat radiated off of the lighter. For some godforsaken reason, he couldn't manage to obtain a candle of some form in the house. Perhaps it were by design or cruel fate, but Everett made mental note to ask Mr Alarie of the matter next daybreak. Maybe he had simply missed them on his first walkthrough. He shifted on the bed, his feet falling on the floor beside it. Not precisely being the possessor of a large supply of clothing, Everett had slept in his day clothes. Then again, it was so commonplace that there was rarely an occasion in which he didn't. While inclined to go back to sleep - nightly noise was unavoidable in Brooklyn - something about this particularly irked him. Gramophones and record players certainly didn't function of their own whim, and they didn't operate on a dime either. He was no expert, but they definitely operated with electricity, and not just a prayer.

The floorboards moaned beneath him as he stood from the bed. The howling outside silenced, as did the gramophone. Dead it wasn't, a pause instead. A breath. A moment with baited breath as something waited, hiding. Everett's eyes scanned the room. Nothing. Darkness threatened his small island retreat, with his measly little lighter. The boards beneath him creaked again as he shifted forward. A small spider hung down from a spindly little thread. Directly ahead of him, its 8 eyes staring back at him. It dropped from its thread, between the cracks in the floor. While Everett shifted his lighter down to catch sight of it, he was met with nothing.

Taking hesitant strides towards the door, he hears nothing but his own footsteps. Down the stairs, and past the entrance room where spiders and dead smells festered, he moved into the living room. All was dark as expected. A large fireplace without wood or coal occupied the west facing wall. Armchairs covered in dust and rat droppings surrounded it closely. Above it all loomed a large portrait that bore a close resemblance to Everett's late grandfather. Even through the thick layer of dust, it was more than obvious. Curiously, the painting looked to be far before the era of the 60's - or even the 1860's. It appeared almost centuries old - surely no bloodline was as strong to possess such a European home like this that was this old. Even stranger was the lingering fact that Washington hadn't been an established state until long after the first colonies.

The offending gramophone sat proudly on a table in the centre of the room. It was bare in appearance, with no sign of life. However, as the firelight crept upon its surface, Everett noticed something curious. Like the rest of the room, the device was covered in dust. But, there was the odd spot of clear on it. The record was clean, the needle, despite being malformed, was clean. The power and controls were clean.

"What the fuck," he whispered, leaning closer as to inspect it. Bringing the flame closer, he could see the swirls of fingerprints. The small shine of residual oil from a person's fingertip. A chill ran up his spine as he pulled away. Having worked as a forensics expert for most of his life, there was no perceivable way that those fingerprints were old.

He stepped back, and another mirrored his own. Whipping his head around, he heard the creak of another step. It came from nowhere around him, but surrounded him all the same. The light he held flickered, weakening. It seemed the fuel was beginning to burn out.

His own haggard breaths filled the room with a chilling energy. Steps sounded behind him, and he turned. Nothing but shadow. They sounded above, and around him. Everywhere, and yet nowhere.

"Who- Hello? Is anyone there?" Though it betrayed every instinct he had been taught, he called nonetheless. A harsh squeal yelled out from behind him as the gramophone came roaring to life once again, it's volume set to maximum. Everett's arm flailed, knocking the device akimbo and sending it to the floor. The delicate devices shattered, metallic cogs and screws scattering across the living room floor.

Silence engulfed him once more, but a presence held him in the iron manacles of fear. Eyes seemingly watched him from every angle, whispering to him the insanities of this house. From the cracks and crevices, he was tormented. Though in reality, there was nothing to save him from the quiet.

Everett's own eyes flickered upward once more. A quiet click broke his subconscious. The eyes of his relative's portrait seemed... not the same. Tilted slightly. Unattached. Though uncanny before, the minute seeming change only caused it to tumble further into the valley.

With a quiet his, all light from the room evaporates. An ember burned in place of the flame in his lighter. Though it took a moment, his eyes adjusted to the total darkness. Everett's heart pounded in his chest. What the hell was this place?