Candles to Curtains

By Jay Nystrom

The clack of typewriter keys echoed in the small wooden shack that Alexander called home, sweat dripped from his brow, past his eyes and nose finally resting in the four days growth of hair that grew upon his face. The soft glow of several candles illuminated the cramped quarters, the room was a bedlam of half finished manuscripts, stacks of reference books, and piles of refuse and rubbish. Alexander had not slept in nearly a full five days but the fury of his conviction could not be stopped, this idea for a novel had swirled and coalesced in his brain for a full year and now it yearned, no… it begged to be unleashed onto paper and out into the world from the ether.
A half eaten bowl of soup sat adjacent to a warming glass of bourbon, the food and drink was consumed only as a way to keep his body from failing, he took little pleasure from it. Alexander was in the zone now, a stack of paper was piled high on the desk containing the words that would be his bestselling debut, it was a much stronger story then the previous four he had discarded into the corners and trash can. It wasn’t that they were all that bad but this, this was the one, he was sure of it.
His fingers stopped their frantic scrambling at a small noise outside, he glanced through the single window with it’s torn, dry, and old curtains hanging limp on the windless night. An owl had perched itself in the tree outside, the bird stared with it’s large yellow and unblinking eyes, then it slowly turned it’s head the nearly one hundred and eighty degrees to face forward again. Alexander felt unnerved by the sight but all at once excited by the sense of the macabre and he started at the typewriter with renewed fervor.
With a flourish chapter twenty four was complete, he took a small break to scoop a few spoonfuls of the cold soup into his mouth, he washed it down with the remaining bourbon in his glass. He got up to refill, his feet creaked on the ill built wooden floor with every step, he paused…to him it sounded like something else had also creaked the slats. He shook the thought away and grabbed the bottle on the mantle, he took a swallow right from the bottle then crossed the floor back to his chair. He thought briefly about other things, he often did when the loneliness got the better of him. His mind raced with thoughts of what ifs and maybes, this self exile was the best for him as far as actually finishing his novel but it was still depressing at times.
Alexander closed his eyes and thought of a pretty little redhead he knew from town, she was just the last in a long line of women he was too scared to approach. That was really the story of his life, a string of close calls and scares but nothing of any real substance to speak of. He wouldn’t change a thing about it though, it was the miles that made then man. He took another drink, loaded another sheet of blank paper and began to type again. He worked without stopping for another two hours before he jumped at the sight of something moving in the shadowed corner of his domicile.
He flinched again as something scratched at the wall, he swept out of his chair casting the bottle of alcohol to the ground breaking it into a million shards of penetrating glass. His heart was beating wildly now, the scratching increased in rhythm and intensity. He had heard the mice and rats in the walls before but this seemed to be something bigger, he pictured inch long claws trying to burrow into his skin. He cursed his over active imagination and rushed to the kitchen.
Alexander drew a long bladed hunting knife from the drawer and crept over to the source of the sound, he thrust the knife into the rotting wood with force. He wiggled the blade free but found no blood or gore stuck to it’s tarnished finish. He sat back down in the chair, his head swam with drink and lack of sleep, he knew he must be hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time he had had a breakdown, his last episode is what prompted his move out into the wilds in the first place.
A low drone woke Alexander hours later, he must have dozed off without realizing it. He stood up from the chair to stretch his tightened muscles loose, the floor groaned with his weight and he swung his arm wildly in fright. A nearly melted candle fell from the desk, it’s small flame licked and caressed a stack of papers on the floor. The dampness of the air prevented the paper from catching immediately, had Alexander paid any heed he could have stopped them from catching at all. But as it was he was screaming and swinging his knife with fear, the cold, cutting fear that only the unknown could produce in the pit of your stomach. His feet were cut and stuck with the glass of the bourbon bottle, as he moved across the floor he left bloody footprints in his wake.
The paper caught fire at last, the flames leapt with seeming sentience from the paper to a heap of unwashed linens. From the linens to the alcohol soaked floorboards, from the floorboards to the miscellaneous books that laid in uneven towers. From the books to the coarse wool of the bed sheet, and from the sheet to the curtains. So stood in flames o’ plenty, a madman with sharpened blade and frantic mind…consumed by imaginary ghosts born of insomnia and drowned with fire.

END