Sometimes, it still beckons me. After all, the big city bustle could never quite compete with the quaint little village life. Every morning the cacophony of city-goers wake me up with their amalgam of chatter sends me down a road of nostalgia for the old times.
I remember when I would practically leap out of bed, throw the swinging wooden shutters open and greet the community with overflowing enthusiasm. I remember the lovely dog walker, Sarah Price, and how she would slightly release her grip on her dog’s lead to let it beg me for affection (which I was always happy to provide.) I remember my neighbour, Harry Baxter, and how he would poke his chiselled chin through my window for a chat. I remember how the old woman across the street, Agnes Montague, would amble down her pristine porch steps and give us a muted yet warm smile before waddling over to the shops for a bottle of milk. I remember it all.
And then the tower came.
Out of all days, that was the one most ingrained in my mind. As per usual, I gave the windows a mighty heave, ejected them open. As I peered outside, ready to bellow out a greeting, I saw it. It dominated the horizon and seemed to consume the sun, casting it’s oppressive shadow upon our street. Despite it’s recent arrival, it held an unmistakable age in its architecture. It’s looming stone walls were cobbled and cracked and it wore a spindely roof of ramshackle tiles and creeping moss. The only feature to occupy those tortured walls was a disproportionately tall, spruce door. Each indented line was accented by dirt and grime and the once proud golden knocker had lost it’s shine to age.
With the new tower came new rules. Number one was be in bed by seven, although the half-decayed board that displayed these rules worded as “Be unconscious by the seventh hour of night”. There was also “Never let the birds hear you sing” which we quickly deciphered as “be quiet” and it ended with “Do not approach your lord unless chosen” which, after some… interesting experiments, we found out meant “dont go near the tower”.
Boy, did we learn not to break the rules.
Despite my outrage, the whole situation seemed wrong. As much as I wanted to approach the tower, something told me not to. Maybe it was my gut, maybe it was logic identifying an obviously suspicious situation, but whatever this something was, it obviously wasn’t held by all of us. I watched with morbid curiosity from the safety of my windowsill as a large, burly man by the name of Henry Watts marched over to the tower. Soon, I realised I was not the only audience member as the whole village observed with silent wonder. With swift efficiency, Henry placed three demanding knocks on the gargantuan door before crossing his arms in wait for a response.
Soon, it came.
A short, stout man popped his head out from around the corner, seemingly manifesting from behind the tower. He wore a ruffled patch of hair too small to cover up his disproportionately large, lemon shaped head. His ghostly white face contained two pinprick eyes, a swooping nose and an overwhelming smile which was packed with elongated, jagged teeth. Once he had fully stepped out from behind cover, I audibly gasped. His stick-thin body was half the size of his head and yet, gave no indication of struggle or effort to hold it up. He wore a stereotypical marching band uniform: bright red and yellows with shining buttons adorning every square inch of fabric and unwieldly shoulder pads suffocating it’s neck.
We all looked studied the figure; some with confusion and others with abject horror. Henry stood unmoving, although I didnt know if this was due to confusion or stubbornness. The little man mimicked Henry’s knocks with mocking vigour. Before he could retaliate, the doors revealed a slight gap, opening with an audible groan. Both the figure and Henry stared into the endless darkness beyond the door; one with unabashed fear and the other with overflowing excitement. At this point, we all shared the same horrified look as two gangly arms slithered out from the void. In one swift motion, they constricted around Henry and tugged him away to be swallowed by the darkness. The doors suddenly slammed with alarming force, the little man disappeared behind the spire and we all got on with our lives.
Most of us took Henry’s disappearance as a warning: one which we all took with great consideration. After that, we spent days, weeks, months without even imagining breaking a rule. The once peppy and welcoming atmosphere had been consumed by the tower’s existence. Our fairytale had become a nightmare. Maybe this was why no one questioned when a local child went missing. We all knew it was the tower’s doing, although we wouldnt be caught dead admitting it. Not while it was watching. As disappearances become more common, the village become more restless. We needed to do something but what COULD we do? We knew nothing about it and it knew everything.
I remember the day that it happened.
It had come to our attention that the local constable, Roland Kippins, had vanished. Out of everyone in the village, he was the most beloved. He made sure everyone was okay during every second of the day without fail. We all stood outside our houses in a silent cocktail of remorse, sadness and anger. Anger towards the tower. It had bent us back and forth, pressing us this way and that.
Finally, we had snapped.
A symphony of cries filled the streets as we swarmed the tower, assorted gardening equipment and brooms held defiantly in the air. As we drew closer, we watched the little man once again step out from behind the tower, malice burning in his beady eyes. He held his fist against the door, but the silent threat did not deter us. As we entered striking distance, the same 3 knocks that took Henry’s life so long ago rang out. Just as he had finished, someone swatted him to the side, sending him colliding with the pavement. Before we knew it, we all stood at the mouth of the tower, waiting for something to happen. Some people began to doubt their decisions while others were practically drooling with anticipation.
With an uncomfortably familiar creak, the doors once again inched open, revealing the blackness inside… except this time, the oversized slabs of wood didnt stop until they clacked loudly against the cobble. We all stared into the void, awaiting our fates. It was too late to run. Relentless waves of the purest fear eminated from the darkness, pinning us to our spots. All we could do is wait.
Two bony hands gripped the sides of the doorway with such force that it threatened to splinter. The arms began to pull forward, dragging the as of yet unseen body towards us. The arms were sagging and bloated, pressed tight against their sleeves. As the mass of arms began to form spools of flesh on the floor, the rest of the figure revealed itself. Despite the door’s incredible height, the figure still had to crouch down to fit through. It wore an overstretched purple tuxedo, complete with a ridiculously tall top hat. It shared the same look as the little man: two beady, sharp eyes, a diving nose and a cartoonishly giant mouth overflowing with teeth.
It peered down at us, bending down at impossible angles as if invisible strings were holding it up. It inspected our now sweating group, it’s head swaying in a giant arch as it savored our fear. It heaved it’s body into an upright position and it seemed as if it would hit it’s head on the clouds. We all shared it’s stillness for a few seconds before it burst into action. It’s arms struck like pythons as it lifted Harry into the air, pulling in opposite directions. We all listened as every bone cracked and popped, the skin began to unveil pools of red and Harry let out the most ear splitting scream.
I’ll always remember that scream. It was almost Harry, but there was something else in there. Something… inhuman. Finally, Harry’s remaining bones gave way and dumped a wave of viscera upon us. We all just stood there, paralysed by shock as it reached for the next victim. That’s when we ran. We scattered in all different directions like a startled flock of pigeons. There was no point in running. No matter how far we had gone, we were always within it’s reach. One by one, it plucked us from the Earth before tearing us in half like Christmas crackers. It was only as I approached the nearest house in hopes of sanctuary that I realised my screams stood alone.
My brain buzzes with dread as I felt a stiff claw wrap around my ankle. Soon, I was hoisted into the air, stuck staring down at the man as it bored it’s talons into my shoulders. I felt an incredible force run through my body as my bones began to give way. My teeth clenched so hard that a few of them shattered and splintered in my mouth. I closed my eyes, ready for the overwhelming pressure to end…
Ding.
One concise chime stole our attention as the pressure vanished. I began to cry in relief as the figure dropped me to the floor, landing with a wet slap. Only a few bones were still whole and I could feel a couple of them piercing my skin. My head raised meekly as I observed the figure stride back into its tower, seemingly hypnotised by the bell. Once the figure had been concealed by darkness, the doors slammed shut and all that was left was the red remnants of its rampage.
I immediately crawled towards the border of the once delicate town. Why hadn’t I done this before? The thought of leaving had never made itself known but… why? I gave up on my questions, glad to have survived the encounter. After what felt like days of dragging my limp corpse along the streets, a dog walker spotted me with shocked horror painted on their face. Soon enough, I was in the back of an ambulance and on my way to recovery…. physical recovery, that is. I will never recover mentally from that day. I will never forget. I will always remember.