Minotomony pt.1

14th September

I am awoken by a snort. But where did it come from? I look at the clock, all the numbers gather on one side, almost spinning like a Catherine wheel. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, the shadows settle on the room. She is asleep next to me, maybe she made the sound. No, it was distant, yet urgent. Maybe I was the creator of the beastly sound. Again no, there is something not right. I lay awake, deciphering the darkness, my heart pummeling the inside of my chest. Then, another short, sharp expulsion of breath. Followed by a cacophonous crack, as if the hoof of a great beast stomped concrete. Confusion sets in. I raise myself and sit on the edge of the bed. I still cannot make head nor tail of the clock, my eyes not fully assimilated to the darkness. I stand and part the curtains, just a sliver. The moon greets my faltering eyes, it is three days past full, casting its silvery light along the field, causing the trees that frame the garden to cast long shadows. I follow the shadows to the tip of the garden. I see the contents of the garage strewn across the lawn. Dining room furniture lays upended among biscuit tins and paint cans. The mouth of the garage seems to be expelling its contents like a sickly child, more and more things are ejected from the darkness. I am horrified that my sanctuary, where I have spent so many hours tinkering with my motorbikes, has turned into such an evil beast, maniacally spewing possessions out into the cool autumn night.                    

 My motorbikes… 

The veil of sleepy confusion is at once lifted. There’s someone trying to steal my motorbikes. Abruptly, I pull on my trousers and I head out of the bedroom door. I am an old man, but I’m about to show this thieving bastard just what an old man can do. I steady myself at the top of the stairs. The stairs are becoming a problem; She struggles to get up them. Nevertheless, I plummet down them, with the speed of a much younger man. At the bottom of the stairs is an ornate coat rack, it houses many coats and hats, but most importantly a collection of walking sticks. I grab the one I deem to be the heaviest, made of Irish Blackthorn. It was brought to this country by my uncle. It has a bulbous tip, a different colour to the rest of the stick. It is cold to the touch and with this sensation I feel a rush of courage. Again, I feel my heart beating through my chest, like a bass drum reverberating over the ground, urging a great army forward to war. I march forward purposefully down the hallway, through the kitchen and out of the side door.  

I now stand at the top of the slope, at the bottom of which opens the gaping mouth. Darkness engulfs everything inside. No figure can be seen but still the snorts come, and frantic rattling as objects shift and are removed from their rightful place. I can feel the cold through my string vest, condensation hangs on my breath. The bass drum in my chest wills me on. There’s armies at my side. I feel colossal; powerful, like I could topple gods from their thrones atop mountains. I grip the stick with both hands and descend the slope to meet my fate. Step by step, I edge closer. A smell begins to emanate from the cavernous mouth, it hits my nostrils and then my stomach. It is nauseating, but the overwhelming surge of adrenaline spurs me on. As I take another step forward, a figure emerges from the blackness. Even with a moon so close to full, my eyes are not working as they should. At first, I see a silhouette of broad shoulders. I hear heavy footsteps. I edge closer to the jaws of hell as the figure steps out. The armies at my side are baying for blood, the drummers are reaching their crescendo, the general calls his men forward. I lift the stick above my head with both hands and accelerate towards the figure. I swing with all the strength in my body, but the stick only swipes the air. With a speed that I cannot fathom, the figure moves around me. As he passes, I catch a glimpse of the moonlight glinting off a ring through his nose. He volts the fence with an animal like power, and as he disappears into the night, I am sure that I see two spiking protrusions adorning his head. It was all over so very quickly… A trick of the failing moonlight?  

Great plumes of air now billow from my mouth. The battlefield is suddenly quiet and still. The debris across the lawn looks like devastation. I begin to sift through the wreckage, like a soldier looking for a friend, feared dead. What had just happened? Was that a man materialising in the darkness? Such unearthly features. Even now the memory of what stood before me has faded, but the nauseous feeling still lingers. I can still taste the smell that hit me as I approached the great chasm from which that thing came into the silvery light.  

October 5th.  

It’s been three weeks since the occurrence in the garden. I have become convinced that what I encountered was not human, though I have not told anyone this. They are already asking questions of me. It had such beastly attributes…. Since the happening we have also had to move the bed into the living room. She is no longer able to make the ascension of the stairs. The upper floor of the house has become a cruel and confusing place, each door does not lead the same way as the last time you passed through it. Sometimes the doors lead nowhere at all, or back into the same room from which you are trying to escape. It is as if the stairs now represent a portal to a world where the normal rules do not apply. Even the lamp shade has become capricious.  

               I know why…

Because he is up there. I hear him when he thinks no one is in. I hear his great hooves passing between the rooms above. He is my tormentor; not satisfied by our skirmish, he has taken up abode right above my head. As if to insult me even more, he has added to his tenancy by making his floor unnavigable. Whenever I think I have him cornered in a room, as soon as I make my entrance he disappears behind some curtain or through some secret passageway. But I can still smell his pungency hanging in the room he has just vacated, every time turning my stomach just as it did the first. I begin to lay traps for him. I hide valuable things underneath bed frames, and then wait to see his thieving snout come sniffling, but he is always just out of sight. She pretends she doesn’t hear him, or she doesn’t smell the viscous air that loiters around. She loves him like a son, protecting him at all costs, even though she knows the evil housed within. She would rather see me taken away so she can live out her oedipal desires with the beast. I won’t let that happen, I may no longer be a young man, but I see all that occurs in this house, I know all their dirty tricks. The ring is missing from under the bed, proof that they are colluding to steal my possessions and eventually my soul. It reappears in a shoe in the wardrobe, he is toying with me. I must remain more resolute than ever, he will not tyrannise me in my own home.