Trembling With Fear 7-23-23

Perfume at Dusk, by Paul R. Panossian

Leaves crunch underfoot on an autumn evening. Smoky oak blends with sawdust on the breeze: a ghost of the creek mill whose wheel ceased turning many years past. The woodsman has passed too. His trees have been allowed to grow tall and thick on the land he left behind. 

A field opens up between the columns and a house presides like a forgotten temple above the desiccated stalks. It was once the woodsman’s, but now the paint is chipped, the windows clouded. A lone vulture swoops low over its crumbling chimney, riding a gust that sweeps dust over desolation. It perches with a flutter atop the roof to observe the figure wading through the lawn.

Up close, the house’s decay is more evident. Weeds snarl the cracking foundation and vines cascade down its front stoop. They drape the walls like a hoary quilt all the way up to the overgrown gutter. Twiggy saplings rise from the trough. Their intersecting limbs obscure a small attic window. 

A shadow recedes behind the fogged pane.

The screen door screeches wide in the wind and bangs against the rickety banister. Its springs have long since corroded so it does not swing back. Hinges creak as the front door opens a crack.

“Hello?”

There is no answer, only the wind whistling through the opaque fissure.

The door yields with a push, and a crooked rectangle of light unfurls across the floor. An elongated silhouette steps onto the golden hardwood. 

It is cool inside. 

“Hellooo?”

The sound falls flat in the stillness. Shapes solidify in what little sun filters through moth-eaten curtains: slumping furniture subsiding into forsaken corners, all shrouded in drifts of cobwebs and dust like a musty snow.

Timbers groan overhead and the darkness is touched with an oppressive chill. 

“Is someone there?”

The question dies in silence, but something sweet and oily trails the scent of mildew and aged dust. 

The hatch to the attic hangs in the middle of the foyer. Its folding stairs extend to the floor. The metal loop that kept it shut has come down with the hasp, still latched together by a hefty padlock. Rays shine through the opening in the ceiling, catching on blue motes like tiny flakes of moonlight. The rays shift, are severed, then restored. Something has passed before the light.

There is no entreaty this time, no hesitation in the footsteps that cross the foyer.  

The stairs are steep, more like ladder rungs. Mounting them demands a firm grip. Their old wood squeals in protest of the heavy boots that thud upon them. Above, only the eaves are visible, shrouded in tattered webs. Broaching the ceiling is like stepping into winter, but the air is stuffy, as if the space has been gradually filled with frigid breath. Each movement brings on a damp ache that creaks in the joints.

Angled beams stream through opposing windows too small to permit escape. The fast-dying sun alights on frenetic five-line sets of scratch marks on the floor, translucent even through the dust that cakes the ancient grain.

That fragrance has returned, distant and sweet, reminiscent of pressed petals and passions left to fade.

Cold breath brushes prickly skin.

“Don’t go.”

It is the kind of velvety tone reserved for whispering between pillows, but the words are drenched in desperation. 

Icy fingers press against stubble, drawing it toward a pale face in the dark. Radiant eyes glow blue from deep within sunken sockets. Creases shimmer on a papery complexion framed by auburn hair gone stiff as late-season straw.

Thin lips part in expectation, and crystal eyes water.

Her exhale is like the night of a winter’s first snow, but beneath the dusting of years, a springtime hymn echoes; the long-forsaken promise of flowers waiting to bloom and starlings bursting with song. Old perfume fills the air like warm, wet grass. 

Pulses quicken, and muscles go slack beneath a pent-up frost breath that clings to one cheek like a morning dew. Her fingers come away red. There are no nails, just ragged stumps.

Liquid eyes harden to ice. Dry lips peel back from bared teeth and spindly hands curl into rigid claws. A heartbeat skips in a flash of white and crimson, followed by a hard tumble down the steps.

There is pain in the confusion. The room’s contours drift in and out like a fog. Far, far away, the door closes on the dusky gold of an autumn sunset. A pallid figure descends the stairs. Dust swirls in the gloom.

The vulture takes flight.

The woodsman has long since passed. They say he was a widower, but somebody lives there.

Somebody lives there.