hanginggardenstories:THE HOUSE, by Rin Chupeco The house had not always been so empty. Nestled wit
hanginggardenstories: THE HOUSE, by Rin Chupeco The house had not always been so empty. Nestled within the thick of the forest, it was easy to mistake for an unnatural tangle of branches, or a haphazard obstruction of trees. Do not enter; that is the threat. But if you must, then abandon all ye hope. It stands out against the white of the landscape; a stranger with nowhere to stay, but with no inclination to go. Not even the blankets of snow that spread across the clearing can hide what it had always been: a wooden mansion of ample proportions, an artificial construct made by man to rally against an unrelenting winter. But anything that can pass for human in the house had long since fled, and only silence remains. And if anything else moves within; if anything else steps into the lonely rooms and disturbs the layers of dust that sweep the bare floors and decorate the empty mantelpiece; if anything runs light fingers across the wooden bed frames and touch the rotting mattresses without hands; if anything else knows memory in that strange, abandoned manor, it keeps its counsel in the shadows while the sun shines through the broken windows. The world outside is not its to take, and so it retreats; grateful for the darkness, but at times curious of the light. Spring arrives quietly; apologetic, even as it strips the ground of snow to expose the barren brown underneath. Creatures big and small scamper in and out of its peripheral vision, aware of the unspoken line that borders the house and separates it from the woods beyond. But some younglings are too inexperienced. Too naive, to understand why their elders avoid the winter manor. A small fox cub stumbles into the circle, worn and weary. A lame foot and weak eyes have deemed it unsuitable for life by its mother; an unusual streak of gold down its otherwise chestnut-tinted fur, a target for predators. Its bones show through matted skin, ribs protruding. It has not eaten in days. The strangeness of the house captures its attention, but the sense of danger soon passes, dwarfed by something greater. Abandoned, hungry, hopeless; it has nothing left to lose. The door creaks open. The orphan watches it intently for several minutes, fearful at first of traps. But nothing moves within, and the thought of dying peacefully, in warmer places, overcomes the threat of darkness. It limps inside, grateful, and the wooden frame swings shut behind it. In the center of the room the cub lies down and waits, but without knowing why. Something creeps down the stairs. It wraps itself around the dilapidated banister, and walks without feet, across the floor. It stops before the young fox. They watch each other. The orphan whines. It no longer has the strength to stand, but it is no longer afraid. A whisper of smoke curls towards the cub. It touches the tip of its nose, and the fox licks up at the air, inquiring. It was not a friendship, but it was a start. ———————— The house supplies it with food during those first few weeks. There are the occasional rabbits and rodents to catch along the outskirts of the manor, and there are worms to fall back on during leaner days. Spring came with more variety, with fruit growing from nearby trees. When the orphan cries, the house would grow. Roots snake out through holes in the floors and tiptoe out into the snow. Sometimes they are slow and prodding, their tendrils curled around trees and bushes to seek berries. Sometimes they are quick and lightning-fast, catching startled mice and birds who’d left too late for warmer climates. The summers are cold, but rainfall and nearby ponds insure plentiful water. The fox learns to favor three legs over four, the limping foot barely touching ground as it runs. Some days it explores for a mile outside the house; two miles even, and sometimes three, but never does it stray for long. Always it returns to the manor, and its enthusiastic yips echo across the dusty hallways, down the broken stairs. It clambers up what is left of the rickety furniture, wage mock battles with the shadows on the walls. It curls up against the ancient fireplace, and from time to time rubs its nose against the unseen without fear. Uncaring mothers and harsh winters were all it had known in its short young life. The natural had not been kind to the fox, but the unnatural had not been cruel. The fox yawns. Over the course of the months it has gained healthier weight, the gloss of its fur emphasizing its golden back. It purrs at a silhouette in the corner, its true form unknown to naked eyes. It places its head on the strange thing’s lap, allows its head to be stroked by invisible hands. And somewhere in the house, something smiles. ———————— The fox has long since learned to forage for its own food, and has stepped out into the heavy winter frost, like it has done many times before. Now the storm rages against the walls of the house, which rocks at every fierce blow and gust. It has happened enough times before, and even the strongest hail does little damage. The winds pass in time, and the calm returns. The fox does not. ———————— Strangers enter the house for the first time in many long years. They are rough, uncouth men; poachers who have traveled this far north to test their luck. They are loud and noisy and unrepentant, and the house shrinks at their revelry. They toss pelts and furs and bags of bear’s gallbladders into large piles on the floor, stoke a fire in the unused fireplace with tinder, and break down parts of the stairs to serve as kindling. One man sits, planting his feet atop a bear’s head, and the others find this amusing. Their hunt has been successful, and they bring with them foul-smelling drink that they toast each other with. They open the bags one by one, see coins in the gruesome prizes within. The air reeks of blood and dead earth. It is not until one of the hunters opens the last sack does the house see the golden streak, the familiar chestnut fur. ———————- Its rage denies everything else. The screaming is inconsequential. The quickness of the men, their fleetness of foot mean nothing, for there is no way out. One of them shrieks, a high-pitched, painful sound, when the roots cling to his waist, lifts him into the air and begins to twist. Another man takes his gun and shoots blindly, targeting everything and nothing all at once. It is not afraid of bullets. Bark encircles the shooter’s wrist. The rifle falls. It strikes. It twists and claws and maims and mangles and slices, until nothing is left but the quiet. ———————— Branches wrap themselves around the golden fur, light as feathers. They multiply around the young fox’s body until the latter disappears from view, until a great ball of thorns and twigs stand in its stead. And then, slowly, the thing pulls away, dragging the tangle of roots carrying its friend back into the shadows. When the sun rises the next day, throwing its light into the room, nothing remains. The fox and the shadows are gone. ———————— The house stands alone in the thick of the forest. Snow and sun come and go in turn, but not even the fiercest of winter or the driest of summer can change it. And if, somewhere within its dark confines of space, there are flashes of gold and chestnut, of a small mist-like figure that limps in and out of the curiously twisted shadows and yips in delight at strange, grotesque playmates, there is nothing alive to see them. The house has not always been so empty. —————————————————-Despite an unsettling resemblance to Japanese revenants, Rin Chupeco always maintains her sense of hummus. Born and raised in Manila, Philippines, she keeps four pets: a dog, two birds, and a husband. Dances like the neighbors are watching. Her debut novel, THE GIRL FROM THE WELL (Sourcebooks), is about an ancient ghost who hunts those who prey on the innocent. Learn more about her: Tumblr | Twitter | Website Lookie here, I wrote a story on Tumblr -- source link