Owl city

Plant Life
On May 9th, 2011 by Adam
Young
You cringe at each creak on
the old warped stairs but
that doesn’t sway your
determination to reach the
second floor. Your gaze is
fixed on the top rotten step
as you endure the climb. The
walls watch. Things crawl
under your skin.
The servant’s door shrieks on
its hinges as an endless
corridor empties into a dark
master bedroom, occupied by
a moth-eaten canopy bed
dripping with cobwebs. Sallow
peeling wallpaper sheds from
the walls like dead snakeskin
and flutters to the
floorboards as you brush past.
In the corner on a tattered
rug sits a child’s wooden
rocking horse, the seat worn
smooth, the corded mane and
tail coated in dirt. A
mahogany chest of drawers
stands lifeless with the top
drawer still pulled out as if
someone left in a hurry; a
cracked mirror clings to the
wall just above it, but you
know better than to catch a
glimpse of yourself in it.
The air is thick and heavy
and it seems you inhale the
shadows around the room as
they cower and shrink back
from the light of your candle.
Their twisted silhouettes and
outlines bottleneck in your
throat like dead leaves
circling a drain, and during
this moment it becomes
obvious that the quiver of a
gentle candle flame may not
be enough to keep the ghosts
under the stairs… from
coming out.
Slipping back the way you
came, you creep down the hall
like a thief and peer over the
broken banister. Below lies a
sad arrangement of disarray…
sheets draped over furniture,
tattered curtains hanging by
mere threads, a cold stone
fireplace, wet rotten holes in
the plaster walls, a chandelier
with broken strings of
crystals, a man’s derby hat
still hanging from a coat rack,
and all manner of papers and
debris strewn about the room.
The walls lean in. Your blood
suddenly stirs. Someone is
crying in the room above you.
Behind you are the attic
stairs.
Your body’s reaction to the
sudden drop in temperature
sends an icy chill down your
spine like a razor blade. A
window is open somewhere. A
dead breeze wafts the scent
of mold and decay over you as
the orange pinch of flame atop
your stump of candle flickers
once, twice, and then is gone.
The darkness settles over
your head and shoulders like a
deathly bridal veil as your
heartbeat quickens and
goosebumps spread across
your flesh. A foul dust in the
air coats your tongue with a
stale film and turns your
throat to dry cotton. Now
directly in front of you, like a
tomb in a mausoleum, the
attic door stands wide open,
hanging by one hinge. There
is movement in the walls.
Each stair screams out in
pain as you ascend into the
pitch darkness and both
hands grip the wooden
banister for fear of stumbling
and falling backwards. At the
summit, a few paces into the
room, a lightbulb chain hangs
in the blackness and you hold
your breath as you give it a
sharp tug. Nothing. Instead of
flooding the room with light
it seems to deepen the
shadows even more, stirring
up darkness like a diver
stirring up soot in the belly
of a shipwreck. You can’t see
your hand in front of your
face. Sweat soaks through
your clothes, a hammer
pounds at the insides of your
chest and hot shivers cascade
down your backbone. The
silence is deafening.
Suddenly something moves in
the room. You want to scream
but you can’t. The sound of
fingernails tear and claw at a
chalkboard. A door slams
somewhere downstairs. Hot
tears spill down your cheeks.
The mirror in the master
bedroom crashes to the floor.
Something moves toward you
in the darkness. Your body
commands you to make a
break for the staircase but
you’re far too paralyzed to
move. Someone is screaming
downstairs, shrieking with
murderous ferocity, wailing
with misery like a lamenting
sailor’s widow. Footsteps
pound down the second story
hall from the master bedroom
and pause at the foot of the
attic stairs. Your vision
blurs. They know you’re h