Ryden Oneshots

Crawling Vines

Vines crawl along the walls, walls covered with chipped and faded white paint, and they wrap around banisters, around stairs, around windowsills.

They wrap around the house, taking it, claiming it, making it look abandoned except for them. The town children, they spread stories in tiny whispered voices about that house, strange legends and tales that change from voice to voice.

The house is three storeys tall, and covers a large amount of land, taking up the space and seizing more by putting the fence further out, warning off the cramped, small houses of the town. The grass rises high from the moist dirt, but it’s brittle, like a soft breeze could shatter it. The driveway weaves, in a smooth pattern, up until a large door; wooden and grim and rotting away.

It’s the largest house in the rural town community, and it’s a symbol in itself. Children dare each other to knock on the front door, but they never do. Parents tell their offspring to keep away, for safety reasons, but the eerie look of the house is more than any warning.

There’s no story to the house; only hundreds of make-believe and pretend whispers. No-one knows who the deed belongs to, and no inquiry has been made, yet.

***

It’s a gloomy, silent night. Ryan gazes up at the full moon, his eyes glinting in the dark. His jagged hair is tousled, not brushed, and his lips are dry and rough. His jacket is worn, but it’s okay, it’s not too cold yet.

He’s standing on the other side of town, his own private escape; through his bedroom window, down the neighbour’s tree. His father’s bitter slurs are like a broken record by now, and Ryan’s used to it.

His feet echo loudly on the hard sidewalk. One, two, three steps. The moonlight filters through the trees, illuminating Ryan’s path in a faint blue. He’s not quite sure what to do now; so he walks. He knows everyone in town; he was raised here, but not born here. He was brought here before he could walk, and he recognises the country sky as his own.

His footsteps tap, gently, and he pauses. His body looks thin in the light, and casts a long shadow along the grass. His eyes drift from his shadow, upwards, to the large house in front of him. It looks even more haunting in the night, with long, angular overshadows and hidden shady crevices.

Paranoia sweeps with a subtle breeze, wrapping around Ryan’s mind as his eyes drag along the house, and the vines that hold it. He remembers tuning out the stories he was told as a child; Ryan disliked all the outrageous and unreliable rumours, and couldn’t bear to suffer through each new theory.

The quietness of the night soaks into everything, and the air hangs thin, breakable, in the air. Ryan inhales through his nose, his hair falling over his eyes, casting a dramatic shadow over the side of his face.

His footsteps crack the silence, and they start on the long, winding path to the decaying wooden door. As he passes, the thin and fragile blades of grass sway in a soft wind, almost as high as Ryan’s waist. The driveway is wide enough for exactly one car; a few inches of misjudgement however, would send a vehicle into the dirt. He keeps walking, and the stars wink at him from above.

The driveway is white cement, and it glows in the moon light, thick and solid. Ryan wonders when the last time a car drove over the very path he’s walking on was.

When he reaches the front door, it’s larger than he thought. Two brass handles are held in the middle, tarnished and chipped, and Ryan places his palm in the crease, and pushes lightly; the wood feels soft and flexible against his skin.

The doors float open, the edges falling away from Ryan’s palm and into the house, welcoming him. Ryan takes a slow step in. It’s eerie inside, and it emerges into a hallway that disappears into darkness. Ryan takes another step inside.