The Uninvited Guest

We find ourselves in a town near a river. It’s relatively small and isolated by thick forests all around. The little village is one of the few places on earth, where everybody truly knows everybody, where the same families have been living for generations, where nothing ever really seems to change. A sleepy town, where nothing ever happens, where the biggest news is the death of a neighbour, where all the young people have gone away years ago and left only the old behind to slowly fade away.

Doyle was one of those left behind. He once was the only heir of the fortune of the richest family in town, young and hopeful for the future, famed and respected by all. Now he was just old. Old and tired, feeling every bone crack like the old wood in his mansion, desperately clinging to a long lost heritage, slowly, day by day withering away in dusty rooms. 

On that particular evening, he didn’t have anything planned. Of course he didn’t. What was there to do? All his friends had died long ago and his family lived far away in a nameless city, beyond the forest. There was nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but reminisce about long lost times, friends and dreams.

The rain was heavy on this particular evening. A storm front had been gathering in the near mountains for days and finally released all its water onto the tiny town. The rain steadily beat on the washed-out facade of the mansion, with an occasional roar of thunder, somewhere off in the distance. In a room, that was once the central living room, Doyle sat in an old armchair, in front of an even older fireplace, absentmindedly reading a book. The chair, adorned with an ancient flower motif, hurt his back, as he flipped through the pages. He always hated that damn chair. But he could never quite bring himself to throw it away. After all, his wife had loved that chair. Same with the book. He wasn’t even interested in what he was reading. He had already read this book, and the other ones in his library 3 times, but he could never get the opportunity to buy new ones. Even if he was able to leave the house, there was no bookstore in town anyway.

And so he flipped through the pages of the old, withered tome about local myths and fairy tales, reading an article here, an article there…. ghosts who were seen in the attics of locals, sweet fairies hiding in the basement, demons tricking folk with their magic… slowly page by page killing the hours… minute by minute… second by second…

 BONG!

With a hollow sound, the old clock rang and signalled midnight. Like clockwork, Doyle sat up and began to prepare for bed. He slowly walked through the empty rooms, the sound of his old feet echoing through the hallways. Like a robot he walked through his house doing the same routine he did every day, leaving a clear path in the thick layer of dust on the floor. After a short amount of time, he already lay in bed, drifting off to the bliss of sleep, dreaming and peacefully floating…

BOOM!

 He woke to the sound of a shattering lightning bolt, that shook the old bones of the mansion to their very core. He prayed, that nothing had happened to the house and decided it was probably for the best to check up on everything. He painfully started his walk around the house again, but this time he didn’t manage to complete his walk. As soon as he stepped foot into the central hallway, a shattering sound echoed through the halls.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Someone had knocked on the door, but they had knocked with such a power that Doyle thought the door was going to burst.

He was left startled for a few seconds. He didn’t expect to be forced out of his clockwork-like routine so violently, and especially not so late. He stared at the door for a while, before his old instincts for manners and courtesy sprang back to life. “Coming!” he shouted down the hall and began to walk towards the door. As he walked, his old physique changed as best as possible to that of a well-mannered gentleman, but for all his efforts he managed nothing more, than the pale shadow of a gentleman. Who could this be to such a late hour? Maybe Eleanor from downtown, asking for sugar again. Or Timothy. Or the Postwoman Eleanora. ‘But this late at night?’ Doyle thought as he approached the door. And with a creek of the doorknob, he slowly pushed the door open.

“Good evening.” “Er…Good evening, sir. How can I help you?” Before Doyle stood a figure, twice as tall as him, with unnaturally long arms, dressed from top to bottom in black leather, including gloves and a large hat, casting a shadow on its face. “Would you be so kind and let me in, for a while? I got surprised by the storm and I am looking for shelter,” the figure said in the most monotone, unexciting voice any living creature could produce. Doyle squinted his eyes. Who was that under the hat? Timothy perhaps. Or Charles. Or Montgomery. But he couldn’t make out anything in that shadow on the figures face. “Er…surely. You can come in and rest. Who am I to deny somebody my hospitality. If you don’t mind me asking…What was your name again?” Doyle asked, still a bit startled. “Not important. You wouldn’t know me.” And with a slight tip of its hat and a quiet ‘Thank you’ the figure entered the house, without further explanation. Again, Doyle stood there for a while in shock. What? What did this uninvited guest mean? Well, technically, Doyle did formally invite him in, but still… Was this… thing a…. a…. Stranger? Someone not from here? He didn’t recognize its voice, nor its posture. It had been years since someone new had come into town. How did it come here? And why?

With these thoughts in his mind, Doyle made his way inside, mumbling to himself: “A stranger…a stranger.” He made his way into the living room where he found the stranger standing before the fireplace. Would you care for some…tea?” Doyle asked hesitantly. “Yes, that would be greatly appreciated. Again, thank you for your hospitality.” “Of course. Please… er... make yourself comfortable.” Doyle slowly walked out of the living room towards the kitchen, occasionally staring back at his guest, trying to make out a face below the large hat, but there was nothing but shadow and darkness.

Doyle walked through to the kitchen towards the other end of the house. The old corridors and hallways of this ancient ruin, this living memory seemed only to get longer and narrower with each year more on Doyle’s back. But he never liked going to the other side of the house, anyway. He could never remember where which hallway was and which wooden door led where. At times the house felt more like a labyrinth than a home. No not a labyrinth. A prison. But then you could argue, that those two are basically the same thing, just from another perspective. Doyle had almost reached the kitchen, when he suddenly heard a sharp sound coming from the attic, a sound like rushing wind, or a howling scream, shaking his bones and making his old ears curl in pain. Why was this sound coming from the attic? Screaming wind through a hole in the roof was the only explanation Doyle could think of. Well, that and ghosts, but Doyle, though interested in folklore, was never a superstitious man. He knew, that he had to immediately check up on the attic because a hole in the roof could cause catastrophic damage to the things that he had stored up there. However, he also knew, that, technically, he had to serve his guest, but somebody, who shows up unannounced, in the middle of the night, can wait a bit for their tea.

There was only one problem. The staircase. Long, thin, narrow, painful. The only way up to the attic. He hated the staircase because he hated the attic, and he hated the attic, because of the memories stored up there. And even though he hated those memories, hated the past they reminded him of, the past he had lost, he knew, that he had to check up on those memories, for losing them, would be far worse, than remembering them. And so, called again by the song of his own, painful memories, Doyle climbed the staircase. Step. By. Painful. Step. The more he hoisted his hallow husk of a body up the stairs, the longer the stairs got. Each step seemed to push him farther away from the end than the last. The staircase stretched and stretched and stretched away from him until the end was nothing more than a point somewhere in infinity. And his feet hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and… finally he was at the top. He entered the attic and looked around for any holes in the roof, but he only found old books, family portraits and trinkets from god-knows-which ancestor. This truly was the Panopticon. This truly was the centre of the labyrinth, where he could see everything, all his memories and failures, where he was trapped the most. All of these… things, these long lost things from long lost times made him sick. He didn’t want to remember, but he didn’t want to forget either. He just wished he didn’t have those memories in the first place.

Then his ears screamed again with the sound he had heard before and he fell to the floor, as the long screeching tone painfully echoed through his ears into his body. It was only after a good amount of time, that Doyle was able to get back up again, his head pounding with pain. He wanted to do something, right? But what? Oh, right, make tea for his guest. But why was he in the attic? Oh right, the sound. Well, there was no hole in the roof, so everything seemed to be in order. Where did the sound come from? Ah, perhaps a ghost or something. No important matter. Important right now was making tea for his guest. He had kept it waiting for long enough already.

After another long, harrowing way down the stairs, Doyle finally arrived in the kitchen. From this point on, he found himself in his old, clockwork routine again. Take the kettle. Put the water in. Turn on the gas. Light the fire. Put the kettle on… and so on. As he waited for his water to boil, an old painting above the kitchen table caught his eye. He remembered, that he knew this painting, but he couldn’t quite remember who exactly the person in the picture was, and why he should remember them. The old, oil canvas showed a tall figure in black animal skin, some kind of leather perhaps? The figures face was largely obscured by the shadow of its massive hat, but Doyle could make out a nose and a chin from the shadows. They reminded him vaguely of his own…

WHIIIEEE!

The kettle to his right screamed in his ear, reminding him of the task at hand. He grabbed the kettle, made the tea, poured it into cups and began to walk back to the… the room. What room? Ah, right, the living room, that was where he wanted to go.

Doyle had almost reached the living room, when he suddenly heard a soft sound, like a gentle breeze, or a sweet song, numbing the pain in his bones, and making his old ears just a bit younger. Why was this sweet sound coming from the basement? A sweet fairy perhaps. Yes, only a fairy could produce such beautiful… Wait. Why was he at the end of the stairs, already? How did he get down here? Why did he go to the basement, again? Why… Oh…

Right.

The fairy’s song.

Doyle looked around for the singer of this beautiful, sweet, nostalgic tune. But he found nobody. Only old books and black and white photographs of him and his friends. Old memories. All of these…things, these long things from long lost times made him happy. He didn’t want to forget. He wanted to remember. He just wished those were his only memories. And he began to drift off into old dreams of him and his friends, truly happy. Honeysweet memories of his loved ones he could spent forever reliving. And then he heard the sweet, nostalgic song again.

Behind him.

On top of the stairs. And he turned around, drifting in golden memories, expecting to see a beautiful fairy. But when he turned around to look at the stairs his ears screamed again. Gone was the sweet song, and back was the bloodcurdling scream he had heard in the attic, but this time louder than even the thunder outside. The horrific sound made his blood curdle like milk, and his bones crack like old wood. Doyle’s head was on fire, burning with pain, burning away the old memories of the sweet song. And with a painful scream, Doyle fell down again.

It was only after a long time, that he got back up again. Uh, his head hurt so much. Where was he? Doyle found himself in the room of an old mansion. In the middle of the room stood an old armchair decorated with a horrible flower motif. In the middle of the room was a big, old fireplace. What was this place? He didn’t remember it. How did he get here? This all seemed so familiar… yet so strange. He was sure this wasn’t his house. But where was his house? Where did he live?

It was only now, that he noticed an odd figure standing before the fireplace. It was strangely tall, with abnormally long arms and it wore black leather from top to bottom. Maybe this was its house? “I’m sorry, do you know where I am? Is this your house?” the man asked the figure before the fireplace. “Yes, this is indeed my house,” the figure said and turned around. Below its tall hat, the man could make out a young, beautiful face with clear green eyes and a warm smile. He had never seen this man before, although his nose and chin seemed oddly familiar. “I am terribly sorry.” The tall figure in black continued. “You see this isn’t your house. It’s mine. And you’re not my guest either. I never invited you. I think you got lost.” At this moment the man noticed a black and white photograph on a desk, near the fireplace. It was a picture of the tall figure with a few other people. They were smiling. And laughing.

And at that moment Doyle remembered. He remembered everything. This was his house. He was not uninvited. The creature before him was. And this was not its face either. The face, that was looking at him with green eyes was his own. He remembered. This creature was an intruder, a thief of what was rightfully his. This house was his. Those memories were his. This name, Doyle, was his. “This house is not yours, uninvited demon! It is mine!” Doyle cried out with fury in his voice. “Oh, dear me,” the creature responded. “I’m afraid you’re wrong. You’re trapped in your own mind. Hallucinating. I do not know what you’re talking about,” the creature said with a warm, welcoming smile. And with the most monotonous, inhumane voice imaginable it screamed:

“This. Is. My. House.”

He got confused again. Was this man right? Was he insane? Was this not his own house? Where was he? Why couldn’t he remember anything? Why was he here? What brought him here? What was he? What was his name?

WHO WAS HE?

He slowly wandered. Wandered through a maze of narrow streets and unknown houses. Where was he? Why was he here? His head hurt too much to remember. The rain slowly dripped from his large leather hat and the wind blew harsh and cold through his long coat. He needed to find shelter soon, or else he would freeze to death or get lost in this endless maze of unknown streets. Maybe knocking somewhere was a good idea. It was certainly better than to freeze out here.

And so the lost creature slowly approached a nearby house, feeling each step painfully in its old joints. Knock. Knock. “Coming!”, an old and frail voice said from the inside. The door opened. “Good evening,” he said from under his hat. “Oh, a wonderful evening to you too, good sir. How may I help you?” “Would you be so kind and let me in, for a while? I got surprised by the storm and I am looking for shelter.” Yes. Those words sounded right to the creature. Those words felt right. “Oh, absolutely! Of course, you can come in! I’m always happy to show my hospitality! May ask what your name is?”

What. A name. The creature didn’t have one.

Maybe it could give itself one? Doyle, maybe? No, that didn’t feel right. There would be nothing behind that name. The creature didn’t have a name. How could it have a name. It had no personality. It was a nobody. No identity. No self-image. Nothing. Pure and utter emptiness. No identity. But it wanted an identity. So badly. Emptiness hurts. So much. It hurts everywhere. Being nothing. There was no point in pretending to have a name. The old woman in the door would not know the creature anyway. There was nothing to know. And so the creature answered the only logical thing:

“Not important. You wouldn’t know me.”