The Old Lady's Husband

The darkness envelops everything outside, muffling even the faintest of sounds, and my own heartbeat resonates like a drum inside my chest. I find myself standing alone in a dark hallway, staring down the long, narrow stretch of carpet that leads to the closed door at the end. It’s a hallway I remember well from my childhood, a place where I once felt safe and loved. Standing in the dark, I can feel a sense of dread creeping over me. This is the house where I spent part of my childhood, with the old lady who took care of me while my mother worked two jobs and my father drank himself to death somewhere. But now, in this nightmare, it feels like a trap.

There’s a malevolent energy emanating from the shadows, waiting for me, but I can’t stop myself from walking, step by step, towards the closed door at the end of the hallway. I have to know the truth about the old lady’s husband, and why he was always shut away in his bedroom.

As I move forward, my heart racing with fear, I can sense an evil force at work. Despite the urge to turn back, I’m compelled to keep moving, to uncover the truth about this place. To my right, the closed doors of the old lady’s bedroom and her children’s rooms loom like dark sentinels. But it’s what lies ahead that fills me with dread. The hallway is supposed to lead to the main bathroom, but the door at the end is closed, and I know, deep down, that it’s not a bathroom that lies behind it, but something much more ominous and foreboding.

The windows to my left are now gone, and the warm sunlight and view of the parish hall where I served as an acolyte are replaced by a solid wall. The air is heavy with a suffocating stillness that makes it hard to breathe, and the darkness seems to be pressing in on me from all sides, but I have to know what secrets this house holds.

My heart pounds like a speeding train as I walk towards the closed door. I can feel eyes on me, watching from the darkness. I steel myself and grasp the cold metal doorknob, ready to face whatever lies beyond. With trembling fingers, I turn the knob and the door creaks open on rusty hinges. Inside, it’s pitch black, and I can hear the heavy breathing of an old man in the shadows. My heart is throbbing so violently that it’s hard to hear my own thoughts. Then, his voice cuts through the darkness like a knife: “Did you go to tie her down?”

My mind goes blank for a moment as I try to understand what he’s talking about. But then, the memory comes flooding back, and I feel sick to my stomach. The old man had asked me that same question before, so many years ago. Back then, it didn’t seem as unsettling as it does now, but what was he talking about? I can’t help but remember a time when things were different. When I was just a child, still innocent and carefree, I would sit at the old lady’s kitchen table, drinking my milk with sugar. As my mother prepared for her double shift jobs, she would entrust me to the care of the old lady, who was always so kind to me, but despite spending so much time in their home, lately the old lady was not uttering a single word about her husband or his whereabouts. It was as if he didn’t exist, or was perhaps a dark secret she was keeping hidden away.

My father would be asleep with his cup of iced tea on his bedside table already full of cigarette packets, getting ready to kill himself in small amounts, but the old lady’s husband was always there. He was a constant presence in my life, always greeting me with a gentle demeanor and a warm smile, often asking me about my day while he prepared to leave for his woodworking factory. I remember how he would pause and inquire if I had any plans to tie the goat later, as he laced up his shoes, but I never understood what he meant by that. I also remember spending countless afternoons playing on his tractors, going up and down the fields with the wind in my hair, while his son, who was like a brother to me, drove them with skill and precision. His daughter, the bookkeeper, would be inside the office working with her papers, always so kind to me whenever I went in to say hello. Now, standing here in the dark hallway, all those memories seem like a lifetime ago. The evil that lurks behind that closed door feels so real, so tangible, that I can almost feel it breathing down my neck, and I can’t help but wonder what he was hiding in that room, and why the old lady was so protective of him. I recall playing football against the garage gate and being scolded by her for fear of disturbing him. It’s all so strange... I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is waiting for me on the other side. But I have to know, I have to understand what lies beyond that door. I have to know why the old lady’s husband was always shut away in his bedroom, and what secrets he was keeping from me. From everybody!

I can still picture in my mind how my mother would come to pick me up from the old lady’s house at night, exhausted from her day. Sometimes, she would ask me about the old lady’s husband and I would tell her that I hadn’t seen or talked to him, but that I knew he was there, because the old lady had said so. At times, I would try to peek into his bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but even though the curtains were white, they were always drawn closed, and I could never see anything inside. If the old lady caught me, she would distract me with a field task or ask me to go play with the dogs, always keeping me away from that room.

As I find myself inside the dark room, I hear the old man moving his heavy body in the bed. He clears his throat and asks me with a sense of urgency: “Did you go to tie her down?” I’m brought back to the memory of the old, cozy kitchen, with its wood oven that would make meals smell and taste so delicious. “Who?” I asked. “The goat,” he replied, as if it was something I should already know. It’s eerie how I easily forget that this man had a life outside of his bedroom, and that he would go out and attend the church every Saturday evening. If I happened to be serving as an acolyte that day, he would flash a proud smile at me. It was as if he was saying “Well done, my boy”, a sentiment my own father never expressed in regards to my church duties. Or anything else. But now, in the darkness, his breathing is so loud and heavy that it fills me with disgust. I hear myself asking back, “Who are you talking about?” My voice sounds distant and scared, like a tweet. “The goat,” he answers, his voice almost impatient. I’m so confused and scared that I can’t seem to make sense of anything. Why would I tie down a goat? And why does he keep asking me about it? All I can hear in my head is my own voice begging me to scream. I need to scream because I’m dreaming, and that’s the only way I can escape this dark room. “Have you tied her down, already?” As he keeps asking the same question, his tone getting closer and more threatening with each repetition, I feel trapped in this twisted dream. I’m somewhat conscious that I’m dreaming, but the terror feels so real that it’s hard to separate the two. In my mind, I’m screaming at myself to wake up, to escape this nightmare, but my body is frozen with fear. The old man’s breathing grows louder and more menacing, and I can feel him getting closer to me, even though I can’t see him. The darkness around me feels like it’s closing in, suffocating me, and I know that if I don’t wake up soon, I may never escape this dream. I force myself to scream, to break free from this nightmare and save the dreaming me, but my voice feels weak and powerless against the overwhelming void. The old man’s voice echoes in my mind, haunting me, and I can’t help but wonder if this is what true horror feels like. The fear grips me like a vise, and I’m lost in the surrounding obscurity, struggling to break free from this endless nightmare.

As the old man’s persistent questioning continues, I can feel my fear reaching its peak. With all my strength, I force out a blood-curdling scream that echoes through the hallway and reverberates in my waking ears. The sound is deafening, as if it’s tearing apart the fabric of reality itself. The old man’s voice is drowned out by my scream, and I can feel the dream slipping away from me. But just as I’m about to wake up, the old man’s face materializes out of the darkness, inches away from mine. His eyes are black pits, and his breath smells of decay. He leans in close and whispers, “Go tie the goat.” And then, with a jolt, I wake up, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.

As I lie in bed, my heart still racing from the nightmare, I can’t help but wonder why I keep having these dreams. The hallway is always the same, dark and foreboding, and the old man’s voice is always there, asking me about tying down the goat. I know I’m dreaming, but it feels so real, and his voice seems to be getting closer every time. I glance over at Mia, my French bulldog who is still sound asleep and snoring loudly, and it’s clear my scream hasn’t disturbed her slumber.

Did I tie her down? I can’t shake the feeling that there’s some deeper meaning to his words, some hidden significance that I’m missing. And the way he asked, with that tone of quiet menace in his voice, it’s like he’s trying to tell me something without actually saying it. I try to push the thoughts from my mind, to tell myself that it was just a dream, that none of it was real. But deep down, I know that’s not true. There’s something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something that I can’t quite put my finger on. I glance over at the clock on my bedside table and see that it’s already well past 4 in the morning. I know I should try to get some sleep, but the thought of facing that old man again in my dreams is too much to bear. I can’t keep living like this, with the fear and uncertainty weighing on me every moment of every night.

Finally, with a deep sigh, I sit up in bed and turn on the lamp. Maybe if I distract myself with some television show, I can forget about the nightmare that’s been haunting me for so long. Yet, I know that I’ll never be able to escape the memory of that hallway, the darkness and the old man’s voice. And as I settle back into bed, I can only hope that sleep will bring me some peace, some relief from this endless cycle of fear.

“Did you tie the goat?”