The Hoarder


The winds  howled. The doors creaked. Unwanted guests arrived quick; trying to find refuge. Candles danced shadows upon the walls creating scary faces that blinked eyes at you.

It was an eerie night in the house on the hill. It rested back a long, curvy lane, made of stone and gravel. Ruts formed from pouring rains, making it almost impossible for automobiles to make their way to the front door.

Naked trees with long arms, scratched their nails against each other as if fighting for their rights to stand tall and strong. Branches which couldn’t hold their own, fell hard to the ground; crumbling and breaking into many pieces.

Souls who once rested in peace in the cemetery next door, now could be seen by the most naked of eyes. White wisps of matter floated through the air as each spirit fought for a new resting ground.

Inside the house, dressed in a dingy, white, floor-length sleeping gown, a man sat at the table. A small table which held one lit candle, a dead rose in a dirty vase, a pad and a feathered pen rested on the worn tablecloth.

He picked up the pen and stuck the tip on his tongue as if pulling ideas stirring in his brain may come out into the open. He wrinkled his brow and scratched at his chin. “Come on, damn you, come out. I know you are in there.”

In his day, he had written many a word and placed the sheets in order and had created several books. No one knew that he was famous in his own right. A magician of thought, a monkey made to come to life by tugging at the strings, now sat lifeless, waiting for the brain to kick into gear.

He had sat there for hours, for days, trying to think of the first word he wanted to write down. He was about to give up and decided instead a change of pace may stir life back into him.

He slipped on his grayed slippers. He placed his over-sized, black trench coat on. Reaching for his umbrella, he opened the big, black knob and went out into the night. He walked slowly down the gravel and stood looking towards the cemetery as if pleading for someone’s help.

He shivered and pulled his coat closer to him and walked towards the spiked fence. The iron was holding back the once lived, keeping them in place until a bigger soul came to take them home.

He gazed over the tombstones looking for answers.  He suddenly became cold. He could feel ice seeping into his nostrils, following the path into the lung cavities. His body became stiff and he knew someone or something had entered his body.

He fell to the ground, grabbing at his throat, squeezing as if trying to stop what ever was invading him. He became lifeless and fell to the ground. Each thought he had ever created took over and consumed him, choking him to death.

Whispers heard, words not understood became louder and louder as his own body was eaten alive from hoarding  His mind  shut down,  his brain swelled, and he died right there amongst the thousands of thoughts and words that he had never once shared with another human being.

Painting done by,

Terry Shepherd

 

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