Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction

Devil's Price By Aaliyah Martin-Clarke

I'm back to where I started. I really didn't want to come back, but it was inevitable. I remembered everything that went on in that spooky house. The doors made the same noise as irritated mice. The windows were blacked out. Almost everything was tranquil. That was until approached the front door. Silently, I sobbed my way up the never ending staircase hoping that this was some sort of dystopian novel I had leapt into. As I came closer to the third floor, I could feel my insides churning. I felt my organs playing a game of football inside of my frail body. I knew that from that point onwards, everything was going to get worse. I froze on the second floor, with the biggest feeling of regret hanging over me. I couldn't move. I had flashbacks to that day. The day that changed my life. The day I lost everyone and everything I loved. The day that will haunt me for eternity. But I never had a choice. Not really. He twisted my mind with his overwhelming manipulation.  I couldn't resist. There was only one outcome and it was his. It was always his way. I continued up the unstable steps. I was shaking like I was having some sort of panic attack. I couldn't help myself. I was so scared, but I knew that it was time. I was almost at the last step when something strange caught my eye. At the end of the spiralling hallway, I could see the end light vigorously flickering. I took the last step and BOOM! The light blew up. Smoke everywhere.



Darkness. Isolation. Pain. They were the only things I was experiencing. As I dragged myself down the hallway to hell, I could hear his piercing voice lingering in the air. I could hear a loud whisper, but it's quite distant. My fragile legs felt like they were about to shatter into a thousand pieces, yet I continued to go. I had to make it to the end of this demonic hallway as he was expecting me. He was probably angry with me as I've made him wait. He's always angry with me. I had known him for 5 years now and I had never seen his face. All I had seen is the back of his black, cracked chair and his ashy fingertips. He had nails as long as a pocket sized ruler and they were the colour of mouldy lemons. His voice was as if a frog lived inside of him and you could smell his deadly breath from miles away. The smell sticks to me like a helpless baby to their mother. But there was nothing I could do about it. It was like I had become a part of him. I could never leave him. It might be possible, of course, that far from being one, we may posses two selves. But how can I have my own separate self when I've sold myself to the devil?

 


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