Death to Genesis

Thump thump thump. This foul beast, this Angel of death who was ready to take me to a place of no return had reached the second floor. My face grows pale. In a quiet, traumatic pool of darkness, I sit quietly- no silently, and await the horrid destiny that lays beyond my closet door. I never sought for this day to arrive so soon, I never sought for death to roam the halls of my own house looking for the victim it hath been sent to claim. My body is filled with alcohol, still, I think clearly. My heart is filled with panic. This January evening was not destined to take this appalling turn yet it did, yet it did. Mine fine January Genesis hadst not begun so dreadful. A moment ago I was not the devil’s prey.

I had returned home from a weary day at work and sought only to find rest in a captivating folklore and a cup of chamomile tea nestled by my side. I had settled by a dark corner in my parlor lit only by a small flickering candle. My doddery aching hands shook, the novel in hand. I gently flipped open the front cover and felt the frail paper quiver in my hands. The title was 'Death to Genesis'. A small shiver crawled down my spine, and every aching muscle in my body tensed, yet I proceeded to read. I read these tales about bodies being left to rot, dram girls falling down wells, and the traveling lamp we call sun scorching up living beings into dust. Wherefore I had found comfort in these demonic tales I never understood, maybe ‘twas the love and the thrill of fear with nothing at my expense. What a cruel feeling to seek, what a cruel evening that beheld me.

I neared the end of the novel and the pages turned scuffed, a sudden distress-like appearance dawned on the pages and it left me unsettled. The title of the last folklore was a repetition of the novel’s original heading. In a sinister font, the title of the folklore was 'Death to Genesis'. I whispered this name and how I fancied it! The name brought chills creeping down my spine, it brought curiosity to my wandering mind, it brought fear, but most of all, it gave me a sudden feeling of power and strength. A feeling of power so sinister it could send an innocent dram bird to death by a boulder. I whispered the name once more. I whispered the name once more and a faint thump in the distance was caught by my ear.

"Who's there?" I said quickly. Fear fills my eyes and my own halting words freeze my body.

I loosened my muscles and chuckled at the foolishness shown by myself. Tis’ the late January wind at my window. I assured myself and carried on with my awe at the title. I began to read the folklore.

It began with a young sir by the nameth of Enoch Marston, returning home with a vast grin spread across his tender young face. Sir Marston had landed a job as a head banker and saw this job as a new beginning, a Genesis. Abandoning his past life, regrets, and failures. After a long drag on a tobacco pipe, Sir Marston had begun to feel light headed. In a desperate attempt to keep his glorious pride, Marston headed down to his cellar to collect a bottle of wine. He stumbled and staggered down his long curved staircase. As the young man reached for his favorite bottle of brandy, he heard a crash from afar. In great terror, he scurried along the cellar floor, seeking a place to hide. He sat hoping to be hidden by a filing cabinet that towered over him but it was a failed attempt. In a matter of seconds, he was dragged by his heels and a bottle of chardonnay was smashed over his head. He was stabbed in the heart and left to bleed and die. On the walls of his murder site, three words were written on the cold brick walls. “Death To Genesis”. No more pain, no more sorrow, on his fine day of a new beginning along with his pride and euphoria, his Genesis was killed.

I sat in silence and pondered over the folklore. I typically took a certain liking to bloodcurdling tales, but this tale left me anxious and unsettled. I took a final sip of the tea that sat so patiently on my side table and arose from my seat. Silly me. I let out a lusty roar that could shake the heavens and as I stretched my weary back, I laid the novel down on the side table. While dusting off the cover, I picked up my small fragile teacup and proceeded to the kitchen.

The speed of my blinks slowed and a wave of fatigue consumed me. As I walked down my long never-ending corridor, I took a certain notice to a sudden darkness that stood at the end of the hall. I walked and walked and walked. My body neared the darkness and I anticipated to enter my graceful kitchen on the other half, but I did not, instead, I stood and stared. Stared into the darkness that peered right back at me. Paralyzing every muscle, every thought, every bone, every heartbeat, every itch. The darkness brought into captivity every single undisturbed part of my life and grasped it. Pulling it toward a state even deeper than depression. I stared into the darkness and despite my constant hesitation to close my eyes, I couldn’t hold back. With the shutting of my eyes, the crashing of a glass cup followed. I opened my eyes expecting to see the cup which I had held shattered to pieces on the floor before me, but in my hands sat my petite teacup, well and proper. I looked up at my surroundings and to my amazement I stood in my kitchen, lights shining on my face, facing the sink. My body trembled in fear and almost immediately, my mouth became a record player stuck on replay and two simple words were uttered incessantly. W-w-wine U-upstairs.

I seized a bottle of wine and dragged my feet up the stairway. With every step, I felt my fearfulness, exhaustion, and agony trailing behind. Words could not describe how I longed for this judgment and affliction to end; my body felt hollow yet weighed down. As I sat on my bed, I took large quaffs of my wine and stared at the wall. I was waiting, awaiting what? In a trance of nothingness, my attention was caught by another crash sound from below. This sound was heard so clearly, I fell to the floor. I wept and wailed, death was near, I could smell it. As I heard footsteps approaching the bottom stairs I scurried along my floor and hid myself in my closet.

Here I am, drunk, tired, and cowering under the protection of a thin closet door. I recall hiding away an old audio recorder in a box, and in the darkness, I feel around and grab the box. I steady my shaky hands and open it, revealing a dusty audio tape recorder. I take deep breaths and finally click the record button.

“ I, Ernest G Lombard record my will on January 2, 1883. I leave all my money to charity, Yes! Charity. Let my name not be tarnished with my death. To my dear daughter Penelope, how I love you. After several years of silence between us, we finally reconciled. We finally reunited in love and peace. Why must I go, now that my relationship had been restored? I leave to you my mansion, I know you will make it into a beautiful home, just as your mother and I did. I also leave to you my books, my precious books which hold such knowledge only one of intelligence and strength can hold.”

I paused in shock Death to Genesis, The story! That book, that foul book hath cursed me, the fate of Sir Enoch Marston hath befall me! I silence myself in realization that I was shouting, tears stream like rivers down my cheeks. Thump thump thump. That foul beast had heard me, that Angel of death who was ready to take me to a place of no return had reached the second floor. My face grows pale. In a quiet, traumatic pool of darkness, I sit quietly- no silently and await the horrid destiny that lays beyond my closet door. I never sought for this day to arrive so soon, I never sought for death to roam the halls of my own house looking for the victim it hath been sent to claim. My body is filled with alcohol, still, I think clearly. My heart is filled with panic. This January evening was not destined to take this appalling turn yet it did, yet it did. Mine fine January Genesis hadst not begun so dreadful. A moment ago I was not the devil’s prey.

“There is a cursed book on the side table in my parlour, burn it! Let no living soul read that book. Do you hear me!? No… Living…..Soul. I am going to die soon, to anyone I have wronged, I apologize. My resolution for the New Year was to pave a new beginning for myself and my daughter. But I see I have run out of time.”

The door that once lay still and quietly beyond the closet door creaks open.

“I love you Penelope…NO! SPARE MY LIFE!”

“Father?” Penelope calls out from the parlour, “Tis January 4th, we have a brunch scheduled!” Penelope walks to the bottom of the stairs. She calls out once more and is given no answer. Penelope gracefully walks up the stairs and raps at his door. In a worried haze, she creaks open the entry and finds an empty room. She wonders where he had gone. Strangely she cautiously plods down the stairs. Once she reaches the bottom floor she hears the shower turn on. She assumes her father had been cleansing himself, so she makes a cup of tea and sits in the parlor. She then notices a book resting on a side table across the room, Penelope snatches it from the table and opens the book. The title was ‘Death to Genesis’.