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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 02/27/2020
The Wardrobe
Born 1976, M, from Whitechapel, AustraliaMy little sister stopped talking immediately after our father had taken his own life. She went from a care-free five-year-old to a silent mystery overnight. She would play in front of Dad’s huge Georgian era wardrobe all day, soundlessly crying if Mother attempted to move her. Everyone said the wardrobe was too tall to be considered decent and some even suggested we burn it. In the end, we moved Doreen’s bed in front of the thing to alleviate the trauma. I hated that wardrobe.
My feelings for my father were complex. I grieved at his passing but I certainly didn’t make a big show of it. Accusations of adultery, and other more profane things that I will not mention here, ran rampant throughout the village. I knew the man to be secretive and strange and tears and anger came when I found myself believing the ugly stories.
Mother drank heavily in those days and occasionally she would say awful things to me about Doreen. She would spit venom like: “He should have taken that child with him” and “That little piglet is witch’s spawn.” I didn’t understand what my mother was talking about at the time. I would watch Doreen play and wonder why she looked so at peace in the shadow of that huge, looming obelisk. The wind would make the doors creak and sometimes she would look at the wardrobe and smile at it as though it were an old friend.
The maid would come twice a week and flitter about like a hummingbird. She was efficient and pleasant with one of those sing-song Irish accents that’s comforting somehow. Her sparkly eyes lost their light when she entered Father’s room. “No love in here. What husband won’t lay with his own wife?” she would mumble as she quickly skirted around Doreen, careful not to even clap eyes on the wardrobe. Sometimes the doors would slam shut as the maid left the room, even when the windows were closed.
I had bad dreams most nights and I would wake to hear Doreen call for Father but I knew that wasn’t possible. I would sink back into slumber and see the withered hands and ruined face that haunted my nights and I would scream voicelessly for the morn.
Doreen disappeared into the wardrobe on a Sunday morning. I was on my way to breakfast and passed just in time to see her tiny frame devoured by its wooden jaws. Pale fingers grasped the back of her head and the sound of raspy breathing cruelly chiseled itself into my memory. My reaction terrified me most of all: I just kept on walking. I breezed into the kitchen and nodded as my mother commenced her morning tirade. As I poured her a gin, I smiled and said something like: “It’s a new day.” Those are the last words I ever spoke aloud.
The Wardrobe(Jason James Parker)
My little sister stopped talking immediately after our father had taken his own life. She went from a care-free five-year-old to a silent mystery overnight. She would play in front of Dad’s huge Georgian era wardrobe all day, soundlessly crying if Mother attempted to move her. Everyone said the wardrobe was too tall to be considered decent and some even suggested we burn it. In the end, we moved Doreen’s bed in front of the thing to alleviate the trauma. I hated that wardrobe.
My feelings for my father were complex. I grieved at his passing but I certainly didn’t make a big show of it. Accusations of adultery, and other more profane things that I will not mention here, ran rampant throughout the village. I knew the man to be secretive and strange and tears and anger came when I found myself believing the ugly stories.
Mother drank heavily in those days and occasionally she would say awful things to me about Doreen. She would spit venom like: “He should have taken that child with him” and “That little piglet is witch’s spawn.” I didn’t understand what my mother was talking about at the time. I would watch Doreen play and wonder why she looked so at peace in the shadow of that huge, looming obelisk. The wind would make the doors creak and sometimes she would look at the wardrobe and smile at it as though it were an old friend.
The maid would come twice a week and flitter about like a hummingbird. She was efficient and pleasant with one of those sing-song Irish accents that’s comforting somehow. Her sparkly eyes lost their light when she entered Father’s room. “No love in here. What husband won’t lay with his own wife?” she would mumble as she quickly skirted around Doreen, careful not to even clap eyes on the wardrobe. Sometimes the doors would slam shut as the maid left the room, even when the windows were closed.
I had bad dreams most nights and I would wake to hear Doreen call for Father but I knew that wasn’t possible. I would sink back into slumber and see the withered hands and ruined face that haunted my nights and I would scream voicelessly for the morn.
Doreen disappeared into the wardrobe on a Sunday morning. I was on my way to breakfast and passed just in time to see her tiny frame devoured by its wooden jaws. Pale fingers grasped the back of her head and the sound of raspy breathing cruelly chiseled itself into my memory. My reaction terrified me most of all: I just kept on walking. I breezed into the kitchen and nodded as my mother commenced her morning tirade. As I poured her a gin, I smiled and said something like: “It’s a new day.” Those are the last words I ever spoke aloud.
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Jane Lockyer Willis
02/29/2020This is a very dark story Jason and certainly not one to read if depressed. But it is brilliantly written: fine sentence structure and a feeling for atmosphere. It is good to read a story where the author has taken such care over its design and language. The photograph as well, is so right. Jane
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
02/29/2020Thank you so much for your thoughtful comments, Jane. I do agonise over word placement so it's reaffirming that an excellent writer like yourself has picked up on it. :)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Aziz
02/28/2020Too emotional and touching. I read it as I were a witness if the events.
Excellent work Jason.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Jason James Parker
02/28/2020Thanks Aziz. I was going for a 'real life' feel, so that's the perfect reaction. :)
COMMENTS (4)