The House of Release
By
Andrew Milliken
I am a dead man. The thought bounces around Bannion’s skull, each ricochet increasing the volume. Soon, it is all he can hear. I am a dead man. He imagines the coffin, the grave, the cemetery, stone angels, weeping relatives. He smells formaldehyde, the musty earth, the stuffy air of a funeral parlor, as his senses conspire to quicken his heartbeat. I am a…dead…I…am…Bannion clenches his jaw. The end is in sight. Concentrate. He reads his own obituary. Short, of no consequence, a life come and gone. Closer. He feels the slime of decay, the dust of time, the infinite blackness that awaits. I AM A DEAD MAN!
Oh, bliss. He stole a few moments lying in bed, alone in the dark, breathing hard. Somehow, he remained alive.
The alarm clock shrieked. He could no longer delay the inevitable. Bannion got out of bed and wrenched the curtains open, wincing at the scraping sound. The grey morning invaded his room. He squinted as his pupils contracted, then threw his underwear into the overflowing hamper.
He forced himself to shower. The sound of warming water against porcelain needled his ears. The sensation of hot water against his skin felt similarly disagreeable. Wretched friction between his clean body and fresh clothing. Coffee. Tasteless food. Overcoat. Off to work. Another day in paradise.
Returning home that afternoon, having avoided speaking with a single other human being, he saw an envelope affixed to his front door. The howling wind swirled dead leaves, but the envelope seemed not to notice, refusing to tremble in the breeze.
He hadn’t felt anything in some time, but the heavy paper aroused his curiosity. The envelope bore his full name in a delicate script. Overcoming his fear of disfiguring a rare, beautiful object, Bannion read the note inside, written by an experienced hand on expensive paper.
I know a place you can go.
The scent crawled into his nostrils. Musty, like a freshly opened tomb. His knees weakened. He bolted to his room, where he remained for some time, alone in bed, adding to his overflowing hamper.
Much later, forearm cramping, his trembling hand fondled the mysterious note. The text looked bolder now. Bannion attributed it to the dim lights and his foggy head. I know a place you can go. He suppressed a strong urge, then turned it to look at the opposite side. The address on the note called to him, pleaded, begged for him to come right now. A buzzing sound crawled from his low-watt light fixtures.
He opened his curtains. It was dark outside. The feel of his pants sliding onto his legs didn’t bother him in the slightest. He ran down the steps, jumped in his car, and peeled rubber out of his garage.
#
Headlights illuminated the lonely road, an endless grey. Dividing lines had become a thing of the past. Tall, leafless trees stood watch on both sides, absorbing the engine’s hum. Hush, they said, this is silent territory. He drove too quickly for such a narrow path.
Suddenly, the entrance was upon him. A screech tore the air as his foot slammed the brake. The wrought-iron gate, set between two columns of darkened brick, dwarfed his car. Vertical metal bars extended outward from the columns, seemingly to infinity.
The place must be absolutely enormous. Bannion smiled. His body tingled. He stepped out of the car and approached.
Illuminated by gaslamp was a large, iron bell, hanging from the bricks. A thick rope hung from the clapper like a tongue. The lamp’s glow extended to a sign below the bell, written with the same black ink in the same script as his personalized invitation. It read Pull Me. Bannion did as he was directed. The rope was warm in the late autumn air. The bell produced a deep drone, with no percussive edge, as though the clapper were an on/off switch. He felt the vibration in his chest, then his gut, then everywhere. He closed his eyes. If this was how the bell made him feel, what was waiting for him inside? The gentle sound of boots on the leafy path behind the iron gate ended his reverie.
“Hello,” she said.
“Uh, well, I…hello,” he replied. He saw her through the bars. She was beautiful.
She held a candle. The soft light revealed her black evening dress, and her long, black hair trailing behind her.
She’s so pale, but her eyes are-
“Black,” she said. Her smile melted him. “Come with me.” She turned and walked up the path. The gate swung silently open. He stumbled, spraying leaves in all directions as he followed.
The path was very long. Their silence was natural to her, awkward to him. He agonized about what to say, when to say it, if he should say anything.
Say something awesome, something sexy. Wait. I’ve got it.
“Doesn’t that candle ever blow out? Ha ha.”
“Sshhh.” Her voice was morphine. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. It became darker as they walked. The moon was out sick. The stars were away on business. Her candle was the only tether to the world. Suddenly, she blew it out.
He panicked in the blackness, hyperventilating. Before he could succumb to his alarm, he felt her hand rest on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said. Panic dissolved at her touch. He fell to his knees. “You’re with me.” An unspeakable euphoria grew as her other hand slid over his mouth. Bannion offered a feeble protest. “Sshhh.” He tried to lift his arms, but they refused to cooperate. He tried to move any part of his body, but slowly accepted his place underneath her. The wonderful, awful feeling kept growing, consuming all his misgivings. “You’re mine.” Yes. Please. He felt her mouth by his ear. “We’re here,” she whispered.
He looked up, and shielded his eyes against the light. She stood at the entrance to a decaying mansion which exuded the chaos of human activity. Torches blazed on both sides of the faded, wooden door. Brightness poured from the cracked windows. Voices tangled in knots of ecstasy and suffering brought Bannion back to his feet. She invited him with her outstretched hand and a delicate smile to join her. He took her hand, and together they entered The House of Release.
#
The interior was as darkly opulent as the exterior was crumbling, and the entrance hall curiously silent. Bannion strained to pinpoint the voices he had heard outside, but heard only the couple’s footfalls and the rustle of her black dress. The contrast was left unremarked upon. She had taught him well. She squeezed his hand, and he felt loved.
Up a grand, spiral staircase, past a candle-filled chandelier. The black walls swallowed the soft light. Bannion felt as though he were still outside in the pitch dark, ascending. On the second floor, she led him down a long hallway, with doorways on either side at regular intervals. He ventured to touch one of the doors. Lush, black velvet met his hand in lieu of hard wood.
“Would you like to see inside one of the rooms?” she asked.
“Yes. Please, show me.” His voice was quieter now.
She turned to look at him. The eyeless pallor of her face hovered in the stillness. “Of course.” Her pale, black-nailed hand slowly drew back the velvet door.
A rush of sound and light as she revealed the interior. Bannion’s mouth fell open. A woman of elegance, clad in fine white satin, perpetrated acts of extreme violence upon a man in a bright room. His blood stained the lace of her dress. Through a mask of gore, the man’s true face shone with transcendent pleasure. The woman in white smiled at the ecstatic man and said “I love you.” Then the curtain was shut. Low light and silence returned. The woman in black continued down the hallway. Bannion stood, trembling.
“Is that where we’re going?” he asked.
“Stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
They arrived at the end of the hall. She stood with her hand on the final curtain. “This room is for you.”
I am a dead man.
Bannion took her free hand in both of his. “What will it be like?”
“You’ve known what it will be like for your entire life,” she said. He felt great comfort. She pulled back the curtain. A darkness so profound it seemed solid to the touch awaited. “I’ve known, too. We’ll go together.” She smiled at him for the last time before they entered his room. They kissed in the absence of light. Bannion felt his heart stop in joy.
I…am…a…dead…
oh bliss…
Andrew Milliken has a BFA in Piano Performance from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and currently works as an accompanist with the Joffrey Ballet in Chicago. He enjoys writing horror fiction in his spare time
By
Andrew Milliken
I am a dead man. The thought bounces around Bannion’s skull, each ricochet increasing the volume. Soon, it is all he can hear. I am a dead man. He imagines the coffin, the grave, the cemetery, stone angels, weeping relatives. He smells formaldehyde, the musty earth, the stuffy air of a funeral parlor, as his senses conspire to quicken his heartbeat. I am a…dead…I…am…Bannion clenches his jaw. The end is in sight. Concentrate. He reads his own obituary. Short, of no consequence, a life come and gone. Closer. He feels the slime of decay, the dust of time, the infinite blackness that awaits. I AM A DEAD MAN!
Oh, bliss. He stole a few moments lying in bed, alone in the dark, breathing hard. Somehow, he remained alive.
The alarm clock shrieked. He could no longer delay the inevitable. Bannion got out of bed and wrenched the curtains open, wincing at the scraping sound. The grey morning invaded his room. He squinted as his pupils contracted, then threw his underwear into the overflowing hamper.
He forced himself to shower. The sound of warming water against porcelain needled his ears. The sensation of hot water against his skin felt similarly disagreeable. Wretched friction between his clean body and fresh clothing. Coffee. Tasteless food. Overcoat. Off to work. Another day in paradise.
Returning home that afternoon, having avoided speaking with a single other human being, he saw an envelope affixed to his front door. The howling wind swirled dead leaves, but the envelope seemed not to notice, refusing to tremble in the breeze.
He hadn’t felt anything in some time, but the heavy paper aroused his curiosity. The envelope bore his full name in a delicate script. Overcoming his fear of disfiguring a rare, beautiful object, Bannion read the note inside, written by an experienced hand on expensive paper.
I know a place you can go.
The scent crawled into his nostrils. Musty, like a freshly opened tomb. His knees weakened. He bolted to his room, where he remained for some time, alone in bed, adding to his overflowing hamper.
Much later, forearm cramping, his trembling hand fondled the mysterious note. The text looked bolder now. Bannion attributed it to the dim lights and his foggy head. I know a place you can go. He suppressed a strong urge, then turned it to look at the opposite side. The address on the note called to him, pleaded, begged for him to come right now. A buzzing sound crawled from his low-watt light fixtures.
He opened his curtains. It was dark outside. The feel of his pants sliding onto his legs didn’t bother him in the slightest. He ran down the steps, jumped in his car, and peeled rubber out of his garage.
#
Headlights illuminated the lonely road, an endless grey. Dividing lines had become a thing of the past. Tall, leafless trees stood watch on both sides, absorbing the engine’s hum. Hush, they said, this is silent territory. He drove too quickly for such a narrow path.
Suddenly, the entrance was upon him. A screech tore the air as his foot slammed the brake. The wrought-iron gate, set between two columns of darkened brick, dwarfed his car. Vertical metal bars extended outward from the columns, seemingly to infinity.
The place must be absolutely enormous. Bannion smiled. His body tingled. He stepped out of the car and approached.
Illuminated by gaslamp was a large, iron bell, hanging from the bricks. A thick rope hung from the clapper like a tongue. The lamp’s glow extended to a sign below the bell, written with the same black ink in the same script as his personalized invitation. It read Pull Me. Bannion did as he was directed. The rope was warm in the late autumn air. The bell produced a deep drone, with no percussive edge, as though the clapper were an on/off switch. He felt the vibration in his chest, then his gut, then everywhere. He closed his eyes. If this was how the bell made him feel, what was waiting for him inside? The gentle sound of boots on the leafy path behind the iron gate ended his reverie.
“Hello,” she said.
“Uh, well, I…hello,” he replied. He saw her through the bars. She was beautiful.
She held a candle. The soft light revealed her black evening dress, and her long, black hair trailing behind her.
She’s so pale, but her eyes are-
“Black,” she said. Her smile melted him. “Come with me.” She turned and walked up the path. The gate swung silently open. He stumbled, spraying leaves in all directions as he followed.
The path was very long. Their silence was natural to her, awkward to him. He agonized about what to say, when to say it, if he should say anything.
Say something awesome, something sexy. Wait. I’ve got it.
“Doesn’t that candle ever blow out? Ha ha.”
“Sshhh.” Her voice was morphine. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. It became darker as they walked. The moon was out sick. The stars were away on business. Her candle was the only tether to the world. Suddenly, she blew it out.
He panicked in the blackness, hyperventilating. Before he could succumb to his alarm, he felt her hand rest on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said. Panic dissolved at her touch. He fell to his knees. “You’re with me.” An unspeakable euphoria grew as her other hand slid over his mouth. Bannion offered a feeble protest. “Sshhh.” He tried to lift his arms, but they refused to cooperate. He tried to move any part of his body, but slowly accepted his place underneath her. The wonderful, awful feeling kept growing, consuming all his misgivings. “You’re mine.” Yes. Please. He felt her mouth by his ear. “We’re here,” she whispered.
He looked up, and shielded his eyes against the light. She stood at the entrance to a decaying mansion which exuded the chaos of human activity. Torches blazed on both sides of the faded, wooden door. Brightness poured from the cracked windows. Voices tangled in knots of ecstasy and suffering brought Bannion back to his feet. She invited him with her outstretched hand and a delicate smile to join her. He took her hand, and together they entered The House of Release.
#
The interior was as darkly opulent as the exterior was crumbling, and the entrance hall curiously silent. Bannion strained to pinpoint the voices he had heard outside, but heard only the couple’s footfalls and the rustle of her black dress. The contrast was left unremarked upon. She had taught him well. She squeezed his hand, and he felt loved.
Up a grand, spiral staircase, past a candle-filled chandelier. The black walls swallowed the soft light. Bannion felt as though he were still outside in the pitch dark, ascending. On the second floor, she led him down a long hallway, with doorways on either side at regular intervals. He ventured to touch one of the doors. Lush, black velvet met his hand in lieu of hard wood.
“Would you like to see inside one of the rooms?” she asked.
“Yes. Please, show me.” His voice was quieter now.
She turned to look at him. The eyeless pallor of her face hovered in the stillness. “Of course.” Her pale, black-nailed hand slowly drew back the velvet door.
A rush of sound and light as she revealed the interior. Bannion’s mouth fell open. A woman of elegance, clad in fine white satin, perpetrated acts of extreme violence upon a man in a bright room. His blood stained the lace of her dress. Through a mask of gore, the man’s true face shone with transcendent pleasure. The woman in white smiled at the ecstatic man and said “I love you.” Then the curtain was shut. Low light and silence returned. The woman in black continued down the hallway. Bannion stood, trembling.
“Is that where we’re going?” he asked.
“Stay with me,” she said. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
They arrived at the end of the hall. She stood with her hand on the final curtain. “This room is for you.”
I am a dead man.
Bannion took her free hand in both of his. “What will it be like?”
“You’ve known what it will be like for your entire life,” she said. He felt great comfort. She pulled back the curtain. A darkness so profound it seemed solid to the touch awaited. “I’ve known, too. We’ll go together.” She smiled at him for the last time before they entered his room. They kissed in the absence of light. Bannion felt his heart stop in joy.
I…am…a…dead…
oh bliss…
Andrew Milliken has a BFA in Piano Performance from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and currently works as an accompanist with the Joffrey Ballet in Chicago. He enjoys writing horror fiction in his spare time
