Eleanor's Problem

by EmpoleonsTARDIS
thumb|330x330px
“Eleanor, I heard screaming, are you
okay? N-not again…”''
Sharp
gleams of light cut through the trees, creating soft sunbeams that landed delicately
on the unkempt lawn. A light gust blew through the grass softly causing the
shutters to clang against the walls. The old, lime green house seemed to be swaying
in even this slight breeze as Eleanor’s car pulled in to the driveway of her
new home on this a cool autumn morning.
The
house was a wreck. The derelict wooden planks that were nailed to the sides of
the home seemed to be rotting away, the ancient coat of lime green paint
peeling and chipping away from wood. The home looked as if it had never been in
any better condition. The layers of filth and grime on the house seemed to have
been there since time immemorial. Small patches of wildflowers dotted the lawn
along with other much less pleasant patches of crabgrass. The house was three
stories, each story having a few windows whose glass was thick and cloudy. The
first floor had an old porch, one of the columns supporting said porch was
broken, propped against the railing surrounding the front of the porch. Two
rickety rocking chairs were set on the deck; they looked as though they would
disintegrate if someone sat in them. There was a large chimney jetting from the
left side of the home’s roof, the bricks on it were chipped and cracking and the
mortar must’ve been dust by now. The large oak tree in front of the home, if
possible, looked even more ancient than the house itself. 
Eleanor
opened her car door. She grabbed nothing but the set of large, iron keys given
to her by the home’s previous owner. As she walked apprehensively up to the
front door, her foot nearly went through the two rotting steps that came off
the front porch. She grabbed the small screen door’s handle and opened it; it
gave Eleanor a start because it was not attached to the hinges. It almost fell
on top of her as she grabbed it by its sides and slid the door out of her way.
She then inserted the largest key on the old keyring into the door’s lock. She
turned the key and heard a loud thud. The gears inside the door’s lock
mechanism had clearly not been used for what must’ve been decades. She pulled
out the keys and put them in her pocket. She then reached her hand out, grasped
the doorknob, and pulled the door open. 
It
was as if a brick wall of odor had stuck Eleanor in the face. It smelled as if
there were a hundred animals decaying in the very foundation of the old house.
It was so bad that she lifted the collar of her sweater over her nose and
mouth. She moved towards the windows immediately and began to pry them open, it
took a little bit of strength, but the windows eventually slid upwards. The
cool autumn air breezed into the window and she knew the smell would soon be
gone. Noticing the heavy layer of dust on the window, she grabbed the sleeve of
her sweater and rubbed it on the thick pane of glass; as she rubbed in circles
the ancient layer of dust was smeared across the pane, so it almost made it
worse. ‘I’ll use some proper glass cleaner later’ thought Eleanor as she began
opening the other windows. 
The
inside of the house was possibly worse than the outside. The walls were
plastered with a dingy yellow wallpaper, stained with water that must’ve leaked
through the walls. There was little furniture in the home; all that remained
from its previous owners was a small sofa, a few wooden chairs, and two beds. A
shabby door lead to the basement in the living room. She decided to go check
out how bad the basement must inevitably be, she opened the door with a scrape,
feeling an instant breath of freezing wind, she stepped down the stairs. After
she emerged back from the basement, she was so tired that she decided that if
she did not find the bedroom, she would collapse onto the couch. The beds were
so dusty that, as Eleanor sat down on its edge, a small poof of dust erupted
from the mattress. Eleanor knew she would have to sleep in this disgusting old
thing tonight, and maybe even tomorrow night too because her furniture was
scheduled to be delivered tomorrow, and it might take more time, considering
the house was in the middle of nowhere. 
Just
as Eleanor was about to ready herself for bed, she heard a knock at the door.
Wondering what time it was, she checked her watch, it was only 8:00 pm. Eleanor
was perplexed by this, how had she already spent an entire day here? She had
arrived in the morning and all she had done was attempt to clean the windows,
how had she been there for hours? She brushed off the strange feeling of
missing time, figuring she was just tired and must’ve dozed off without
realizing it. Another knock came as she ascended the basement stairs, closing
the door behind her. She walked through her new living room and answered the
door. A young couple, in their mid-twenties were standing on the front porch,
the boards creaking under their feet.
“Hi,
we saw you just moved in!” said the young woman in a startlingly happy voice.
“I’m Clair, and this is my husband; Eric.” The woman gestured to the man
standing next to her. He was smiling just as brightly as his wife, it startled
Eleanor a bit, how could they be so happy when they were standing on the
threshold of such a miserable old house? “We live just down the street from
you, I thought we’d stop and introduce ourselves” continued the woman, ignoring
the puzzled look on Eleanor’s face. “What’s your name?”
“Oh,
I-I’m Eleanor”, she said, introducing herself.
“Did
you know Mr. Anderson?” asked Clair.
“N-no,
I didn’t” replied Eleanor, not having the faintest clue to whom the happy woman
was referring to.
“He
lived here before you” chimed in Eric, “he was such a nice old man, such a
shame he passed away.” Eleanor paused; she couldn’t imagine someone actually
living in this squalor without cleaning it. 
Eleanor and the couple
made conversation for a few more minutes, with each moment passing she grew
more and more annoyed by their joviality. What gave them the right to be so
happy? She thought as Clair handed her a box of cookies she had baked. After
the couple had finally left the front porch, Eleanor sighed in relief. They
were finally gone and she could go to sleep.
Eleanor
lay awake in bed that night, creaking and settling noises kept her mind racing.
She could see dust falling from the ceiling every few seconds through the
darkness. Her husband would have been appalled to know she was now living in
these conditions, but she didn’t care. She did not have the money to buy a new
home, or even a nice home. She just had to leave. It didn’t matter to where,
but she just had to leave that old house where she and her husband had lived. As
the house settled some more, she dozed off into sleep…
“Eleanor, you need
to get some help. The same thing happens with every new house! Please, let me
help!”''
The
next day, Eleanor woke early, ready to conquer her new home. After coming up
the steps from the basement, she brought some cleaning supplies in from her car
and began to work. The first thing she did was use some glass cleaning spray
and a rag to finally rid the windows of the thick coating of dust and dirt. It
took her multiple rags, but finally the windows were clean. She breathed a
small sigh of relief. It was as if she had had her first triumph over the old
house. It was slowly becoming more habitable. She decided that the next task to
undertake was to be the removal of the old yellow wallpaper. She found a corner
that had already begun to peel off and stuck a small chisel underneath it. She
scraped roughly back and the wallpaper began pulling from the crumbling walls. 
She
scraped harder and harder, the old wallpaper glue should have been dust by now,
but it was stubbornly sticking to the wall. The chisel was making slow but
definite progress against the hard walls. Just as she broke through a
particularly difficult patch of glue, she felt a shiver go through her. It was
as if the entire house had just shook! She looked around, expecting to see that
a bulldozer had just slammed through her living room, but there was nothing.
She decided that the house had just, rather violently, settled. The wallpaper
continued to scrape off until Eleanor could grasp the edge of a section of
paper and began to pull it off with her hands. As the paper slid down from the
wall, Eleanor noticed what looked like an eighth of a circle, the rest hidden
under another section of paper. 
The
circle was drawn on the crumbling rock in red paint, a scratch divided the red
line in half, she must’ve scraped it and broken the circle with the chisel. She
stepped back from the wall and gazed in exhaustion. She had only gotten one
section of paper from the wall, yet she was so tired already. The old sofa
beckoned to her tired legs as she sat down in it, another puff of dust, similar
to her bed, arose from the dirty old piece of furniture. She gazed at the wall,
relaxing, until she realized something she had not noticed before: The house had
a chimney, but there was no fireplace.
Later
that day, the truck carrying some of Eleanor’s belongings arrived at the old
house’s driveway, contained in the moving truck was Eleanor’s clothes, some of
her most prized antiques, and the few relics she had kept from her late
husband. Sadly, for her, no bed or mattress was in that moving van. She walked
up from the basement and began unpacking her clothes, she moved on to the
antiques. Ever since her husband ran out on her in the middle of the night,
Eleanor had begun collecting old antiques that reminded her of her childhood,
among them were a few music boxes, most of them did not work, some lovely
framed pictures depicting flowers or landscapes, and her most prized
possessions: six beautiful antique porcelain dolls. The dolls’ faces were as
white as snow with beautiful dresses lined with lace and silk. She placed the
dolls carefully on top of a shelf in the living room; they looked perfect, as
if the shelf had been tailor made for the dolls themselves... Eleanor was hopeful,
for another time, she felt that this house had potential to be something else,
something better…
That
night, as Eleanor again lay awake in the previous owner’s dusty bed, her mind
racing, she could not help but wonder what other strange discoveries she would
make about this house. It must have been about three in the morning when it
started, a faint noise, like music from a passing car’s radio, which is exactly
what Eleanor thought it must have been, until it persisted for more than five
minutes. She could not recognize the song, but it sounded choppy and scratchy,
as though it was being played on a dusty, scratched vinyl record. Wearily, she
arose from her half-sleep and put on her housecoat and walked along the dark
hallway outside of the bedroom, she searched with her fingers for a light
switch but she found none. She walked cautiously, still listening for the
strange music, which began to grow dimmer. 
She
felt a sharp pain pulse through her foot and up her leg along with the sound of
shattering. Eleanor walked back to her bedroom with the appearance of a wounded
animal, clutching her leg as she walked. Sitting down on her bed, she grabbed
the flashlight she had stored next to her bed and turned it on. She grabbed her
foot and pulled it up onto her lap, the first thing she saw was blood. She had
stepped on a shard of porcelain that had splintered and stuck into her heel. She
winced as she slowly withdrew the shard from her foot; a small trickle of blood
hit the floor with a tapping noise. Eleanor entered her room and bandaged her
foot tightly. She then drifted to sleep.
            “I can’t take it anymore Eleanor! If
you don’t stop this, I’m going to turn you in!”''
Eleanor
emerged from her bedroom the next morning; her foot bandaged, and scanned the
floor diligently for more dangerous debris. Completely forgetting about the
music, the entire reason she had originally got up from her bed, she went
downstairs to start her day early. It was an old house, she thought, a bit of
debris is to be expected. Then, as she walked downstairs, she saw one of her
beloved porcelain dolls, facedown, smashed on the hard, wooden floor. Its face
was shattered, ceramic shrapnel scattered across the room. It was as if a small
explosion had taken place inside the doll’s head! Eleanor stood at the bottom
stair, shocked, no fall could have caused this, it had to have been thrown by
someone with great force down onto the ground. 
Exiting
the basement once more, she limped across the room to retrieve the broom and dustpan,
making very sure to avoid any more splinters of porcelain, a whoosh of air went
past behind her head! She turned around just in time to see another of her
dolls rocketing towards her face; it had luckily missed and slammed with the
force of a cannonball into the wall just past her head! As the doll collided
with the wall, its head exploded, sending sharp daggers of the face out in all
directions! Eleanor stood awestruck, staring down at the remains of her other
doll, the doll that she had just seen erupt itself into midair and jettison
itself at her head! 
Just
as she was about to broom up the debris, another knock came to her door. She
dropped the broom in frustration and limped towards the door. She swung it
open, clearly annoyed by the intrusion. It was Eric; he stood on the doorstep
with the same overly joyous look on his face and a toolbox in his hands.
Eleanor internally wretched at his happy face. Eric tilted his head and looked
past Eleanor, no doubt at the mess of porcelain scattered across her house. 
“Hi
Eleanor!” said Eric in a sickeningly sweet voice. “I just came by to see if you
needed any help with the old place, Mr. Anderson got kind of messy toward the
end and I thought I could help, considering it’s my day off.” Eleanor just
stared blankly at him. Then a small smirk appeared over her face.
“Sure.”
She said as sweetly as possible. “There is one
thing you could help me with,” said Eleanor. “Just over here.” She directed
Eric towards the door to the basement. 
“That’s it! I’m done! If you won’t
stop this, I’ll stop you!”''
A
few days passed of more mundane renovations, after emerging from the basement
again and cleaning up the shattered porcelain that lay strewn across her
floors, Eleanor continued to work on the wallpaper, its sickly yellow color
making her angrier and more disgusted the more she was forced to look at it.
She angrily scraped under the paper, she was scraping so hard, and plaster from
the very wall was scraping away as well as the glue.  It was almost as if she was in a trance, the
next time she looked up at the walls, the putrid yellow wallpaper was gone. All
that remained was the gray drywall and plaster, along with the fully uncovered
red circle. The circle, which had a small scratch through the right side, was
as red as fire. Inside it was an assortment of symbols Eleanor had never seen
before. A strange looking language that must be of some religious significance
to somebody, maybe to Mr. Anderson, thought Eleanor. It was almost as if she
had seen these symbols before, but she just could not place them in her mind. 
Another
knock at the door. Eleanor was irate. She had had enough interruptions today.
She lumbered over towards the door, her foot aching. On the porch stood Clair,
but there was no sugary smile on her face, instead it was morose.
“Eleanor,
have you seen Eric?” she asked, a tinge of fear in her voice, “It’s been a few
days since I saw him. He was supposed to be over here helping you.”
“No,”
said Eleanor, feigning concern, “I haven’t seen him since the first day I moved
in.” Clair’s face grew more sullen.
“Alright,”
said Clair sadly. “If you see him, let me know” She took out a piece of paper
from her purse along with a pen. She scribbled down something and handed the
paper to Eleanor. “Here’s my phone number, call me please if you see him.”
Eleanor simply nodded and, with that, Clair left the home and proceeded back to
her own. Eleanor closed the door slowly behind her and leaned against the back
of the door. As she leaned against the door, looking out into her living room,
she noticed something that she hadn’t noticed before. There was a shabby wooden
door in the corner of the room, next to the strange symbol unearthed behind the
wallpaper. She thought to herself that the door looked familiar, she was sure
she had seen it, been through it before, but she couldn’t remember… she
couldn’t remember much at all, actually.
She
slowly picked up her feet and began moving herself slowly and warily towards
the door. As she approached it, a strange noise began to sound: music. A faint,
scratchy melody was emanating from the door. She moved herself closer… closer…
the music grew louder. 
“I used to be a rambler, I stayed
around this town…”''
The song sounded vaguely
familiar, like the door. The memory of this song felt like it was hidden in the
mist of her confused and aging mind… the gentle banjo chords, the old folk tune
played both from the door and in her mind. 
“Oh where is Pretty
Polly, oh yonder she stands…”''
She was drawn to the door, but still kept her slow pace.
It was as if the ethereal music had thrown a rope around her waist and was
lifting her from her feet and slowly towards the abyss behind the door. As she
drew closer and closer to the door, another sound echoed between the music, a
creaking. The door was opening from the inside… slowly the door creaked on its
hinges as Eleanor approached. The door was drawn fully back as the music grew
even louder now that it was unobstructed by the wood.
“I dug on your grave two-thirds of
last night…”''
The
song became like a siren’s call, she couldn’t resist any longer, Eleanor walked
a little brisker as she neared the first step down into the darkness. She
slowly climbed down the stairs, one by one, as the creaked beneath her feet. As
her heel hit the dirt floor of the basement, all sound stopped. In total
darkness, Eleanor couldn’t even see her hands in front of her face. Just then,
a small, early twentieth century lightbulb began to flicker to life in the
center of the room. The weak strands of pale light mixed with the smell of
burning circuitry and what smelled like a dead animal wafted through the still,
hot air. Situated beneath the flickering bulb was an old phonograph; it must’ve
been at least a hundred years old! It was covered in dust and grime from years
upon years of neglect. She looked down at her feet; in front of her were fresh
footprints, many of them. They all seemed to belong to the same barefoot
person. That’s impossible, thought Eleanor, she had just discovered this room,
how could anyone else have been down here? 
She
looked around cautiously and curiously, the smell of dead animal growing more
and more pungent by the second. She looked on the crumbling brick wall before
her: a circle; a circle drawn in red, like a perimeter of fire. Inside the
circle there were the same strange inscriptions that she had found under the
yellow wallpaper. She walked slowly towards the wall, unsure why she was drawn
to it. Reaching out her hand, she slowly grazed the red symbols with the tips
of her fingers. As she ran her hand down the wall, over the markings, her
fingers seemed to burn like the wall was made of hot coals. She looked to her
left and saw, on the opposite wall, a fireplace, its hearth overflowing with
ashes, as she began to approach it; she was interrupted by what sounded like a
battering ram bashing into her front door! She could hear a woman’s voice faintly
from the front porch: 
“Eleanor!”
The voice screamed, “I know you’re there, open up now!” Eleanor angrily turned heel and stomped out of the basement,
the wooden steps creaking violently as she stormed up them. She stamped through
the living room, past the shards of porcelain from all of her dolls’ smashed
forms, and to the front door. Eleanor opened the door to see an irate looking
Clair standing inches from the threshold of Eleanor’s house. Her eyes were
bloodshot, as if she had been crying, her nostrils flared, her fists clenched. 
“What
did you do to Eric, you old witch?” roared Clair in a voice most unlike her
previously, and sickeningly, happy demeanor. “I know you know where he is!” She
tore through the front door, pushing Eleanor out of the way, nearly knocking
her over.
“How
dare you barge into my house?” said Eleanor in a surprisingly calm tone. “I
told you already, I haven’t seen your wretched husband since you disgraced my
porch with your presence a few days ago...” 
“Don’t
lie to me! I’ve done some research on you,” Clair said in a loud, accusatory
tone, “Why didn’t you tell me you were related to Mr. Anderson?”
“I’m
not,” replied Eleanor
“Liar!”
shouted Clair, “He was your father, I found your birth certificate!” 
“How
could you have done research in the last ten minutes?” said Eleanor, puzzled. 
“What?”
said Clair, looking disbelieving.
“You
were just here not ten minutes ago, you hysterical woman!” snapped Eleanor.
“That
was two weeks ago…” said Clair blankly. Eleanor stared just as blankly back at
Clair, who was holding a piece of paper in her hands. Eleanor noticed the paper
and grabbed for it! Caught off guard, Eleanor seized the paper from Clair’s
hands, she looked down at it: “Eleanor Margaret Anderson, born on April 11th,
1910, to Anne and Robert Anderson”  
Eleanor’s
mind seemed as if stricken by an eighteen-wheeler, her brain began to burn as
if she had just heard something equivalent to a bullet ringing in her ear. She
stumbled backwards, grasping her head with both hands! Clair noticed small
trickles of blood beginning to from in the corners of Eleanor’s sunken, tired
eyes.
“What’s
wrong?” asked Clair frantically, still with the accusatory tone in her voice. It
began to rush back to Eleanor, memories so distant they seemed to be of a past
life. 
“What did you do to Anne?”
Eleanor
screamed so loudly that the newly cleaned windows might’ve shattered, Clair
backed towards the open door, but just before she reached an acceptable
distance to run, the door slammed shut behind her! Clair panicked and began to
pound on the door with her fists; the door was unmoving. Eleanor was writhing
on the floor, still clutching her burning head, memories, violent, awful
memories releasing into her subconscious mind, as if the floodgates on a dam
had been opened. 
Eleanor
was standing in her living room, the door to the basement visible behind a man
standing in front of her. The man looked terrified, his face was pale, his eyes
were watering, his whole body was quivering.
“Get
away from me! Who are you? You are not Eleanor! You aren’t my daughter!” the
man feebly spoke as he backed away from Eleanor. She looked around and saw that
the house was no longer in disrepair, but in pristine condition, her collection
of polished dolls were sitting beautifully on the same top shelf they were on
before they had all been shattered to bits. Two paintings, the same ones
Eleanor had brought from her old house, landscapes and flowers, hung up on the
walls. The windows were spotless and new. Her collections of music boxes from
her childhood were placed neatly inside a bureau sitting in the corner across
from the basement door. The yellow wallpaper was vibrant and freshly installed.
Eleanor,
apparently having no control of her body, walked slowly towards the trembling
man. The man shuddered and pulled out what looked like a large kitchen knife
from his pocket.
“Please,
Eleanor,” he begged, “Don’t make me do this!” He brandished the knife at his
daughter, clearly fearing for his life. Eleanor seemed unfazed by the weapon
and continued slowly towards the man, “Get Away!” yelled the man, Robert
Anderson. Eleanor laughed, but the voice that erupted from her mouth was the
farthest thing from human Eleanor had ever heard; it sounded deep, raspy, as if
a hundred voices were speaking at once! Robert cowered backwards; Eleanor could
hear the same music coming from behind the basement door.
“A new-dug grave and spade lying by…”
The door began to creak open, just as it had done for
Eleanor previously, the man screamed as he seemed to be lifting off his feet,
the knife clattering to the ground. Eleanor laughed that awful, demonic laugh
as Robert was hoisted from his feet and dragged through the air into the
basement, the door slamming behind him. How many times had Eleanor done this
before? Did it start with Robert? How many times would she forget? Who… what
was making her do this? Anne… Robert… her husband… Clair’s husband… Clair…
Eleanor suddenly woke up, she was lying on the floor in
her decrepit living room, porcelain shards all around her, dirt and grime
layering the home once more. Clair was shaking her. Eleanor began to laugh. The
same ghastly laugh from what she thought must’ve been a memory unlocked by
Clair’s research. Clair jumped back and cringed away from Eleanor; she fell on
her back and crawled backwards against the front door. 
“He’s
in the basement.” Said Eleanor, in her deep, foreboding voice,
“What?”
stammered Clair weekly…
“Your
husband is waiting for you in the basement.”
Clair,
as if she were attached to puppet strings, rose to her feet and began to walk
towards the basement… 
“In
here?” muttered Clair, almost in a trance.
“Yes,”
hissed Eleanor, her voice booming with a thousand voices. Clair looked at
Eleanor over her shoulder, and then back at the basement door, which began slowly
creaking open and the music began to stream from within… 
“Threw the dirt over her, and turned
away to go…”''
As Clair stood on the precipice of the basement, staring
down into the dark abyss below, she felt a sharp kick to her back! Eleanor was
standing behind her, watching as Clair tumbled down the steps. Just as Clair
looked back up from the ground, her eyes meeting the inhuman eyes of Eleanor,
the door closed. Faint music was still resonating from behind the door as
Eleanor calmly walked away and back upstairs… she was so tired. 
“Down to the river
where the deep water flow…”''
Category:Demon/Devil
Category:Music