01:49 PM

So this is my counterpart to Rayhaan's story. This is a horror story. Well at-least it's supposed to be a horror story. The whole story is more or less finished, but I'll be submitting it in daily or weekly entries (comment below what you think it should be submitted in. Daily or Weekly? Think about the rest of the audience. Will the cliffhanger effect of the story and the demand of the story be better in weekly submissions or daily submission? I prefer weekly, but it's all up to you. Take your choice!). And also, I think it's worth mentioning that I was inspired to write this by the ever amazing book "Dracula" by Bram Stoker. I know the book is big, but it really is worth the read! And to those who have already read the book, there is a bit of a Easter Egg in the story. It's not much, but I felt that I should pay the original book some tribute. And below is the first part of the story. In this part, nothing much happens, but don't worry, things begin to happen later.
When you have read this please do share this among your friends and communities. If you have any suggestions to make regarding my blog, please do comment. And remember, you too can submit articles for this blog. If you have anything you think is appropriate for this blog, send it along to my email at spitfirerob@gmail.com. I accept nearly anything on this blog, be it reviews, stories, or poems. It can be anything that you've written on, or have an interest writing on. I’ll always give you full credit for it, don’t worry. 

1:49

Contained below is the last part of Mr. Blake Harker’s dairy.

February

8.35PM, 10^th Tuesday

I arrived in Mr. Ashbeck’s house. He was nice and welcoming, took me immediately to dinner. Then we enjoyed a coffee in his study and talked about his areas of study. He also showed me around his house. A grand mansion, constructed in 1786 he said. 26 rooms laid out across 3 floors. Been in the family since construction, and he says it always will be too. A stunning place, I must admit. He led me to my bedroom, which I’m in right now. Has its own shower and toilets and all modern conveniences. Won’t bother him about it though because I probably won’t need it anyway. Nice comfy bed, hope to enjoy a good night sleep.

9.13, 11^th Wednesday

Discovered an amazing garden area surrounding the area! Mr. Ashbeck informed me that I’m free to spend as much time as I want here, and can also have my lunch here if desired. Declined of course, don’t want to be any more trouble than I already am, and anyways, it was much too cold. Breakfast was served on the second floor dining room, which I was told is also the place Lunch would be served at 2pm everyday day. Such a beautiful place. Should start work seriously tomorrow, and I was told that if wanted I could visit their huge library anytime. The house is under strict management it seems. Cold dinner served today at Second floor dining room.

7.45, 12^th Thursday

Restless night sleep. Heard fairly audible screams downstairs. Strong winds with lots of rain. Ironic that tomorrow is a Friday the 13^th. Inquired about the screams, turned out it was housemaid with nightmares. Sent home to recover apparently. Dark windy day, very cold. Didn't get to go to the garden, worked in the Library. Nice and warm, very good place to settle down to work. Food served to perfection as always. Mr. Ashbeck left late in the evening on business to London. Be back on Sunday he said. All food will be served to me as usual, told me to do as I please, but not to go outside the house grounds. Wonder why? Anyway, that was not in any way my motive and as the days are getting colder again, I’ll rather stay in, I said. Going to bed early, as it’s of no use staying up late.

7.50, 13^th Friday
Last night, same again. No screams this time though, but the darkness swept in like a shadow. Wind and rain, and if I’m not mistaken howling too. But of course, Mr. Ashbeck had told me about their dogs, which were kept just behind the servant quarters. Nevertheless seemed a bit eerie. Morning seemed just as gloomy, even a bit foggy. Discovered a flaw in accountant’s calculations, wrote up a letter with an extract to send to him. I’ll have to post it tomorrow. Walked around the house today, in free time. Discovered some amazing old family portraits, probably very valuable. I found another old small library on the third floor. It appeared to contain very old archived family documents, so I didn’t dare mess with them. The whole day retained the same gloomy, dark feeling and it rained more or less all the time. The day got worse and worse as time went on. About to go to dinner.

9.45, Same day

I am back from dinner. I’m writing this to record down a curious incident.

I went down to dinner, which today was served in the hall on the 1^st floor. The skies opened up again and heavy rain drops started plummeting the windows. The lights in the room started flickering, and the candles on the table swayed about too, certain as I was that there were no draughts in the room. Then, eerily, I started hearing the same howling I had heard last night. This all seemed fairly normal to me. The air was humid and a mixture of warmth and biting cold. It surrounded you, curled around you and gave the feeling of being roasted in a kiln. Suddenly, as I was about to bite into a leg of roast turkey, the screeching and pounding on the windows began. These sound weren’t created by raindrops, that much I sure of. It was like the sound scraping fingernails on glass combined with the sound of an ironsmith pounding iron into shape. It grew more and more intense, the sound coming around the windows of the hall, closer to me, closer to the end of the room. The thick heavy curtains started swaying. But there was no draught.  Suddenly, some distance away, from the kitchen I heard muffled screaming. “No! No! Not again!” This the voice screamed over and over before breaking down into hysterical sobbing. “No! Not….”, then the screaming stopped. The voice disappeared altogether, as if it had never existed. The scraping stopped, leaving the pounding to go on. So the pounding continued, slowly lowering in intensity. It grew lesser and lesser, until it too, disappeared.  The rain continued, but it was less powerful now. It had become but a slight drizzle. The room was left to an eerie reflective silence. I was left to the silence. There was no sound at all, not from the kitchen, not from the outside. It was only me, left to myself, to hear myself breath in the fear and horror surrounding me. I couldn’t handle it. I pushed back my chair on the soft, quiet carpet. I made no noise. I slowly made my way upstairs, the heated house now feeling cold and cruel. And that is where I find myself now.

What had I witnessed? Who was it screaming? Who was it pounding the windows? With these thoughts and these fears, I lay down on my bed. The time is 9:20 PM.

11:36: Why am writing again? I don’t know. I'm wondering if I have lost my mind. Outside, the rain has begun again. The wind beats at the outer walls, trying to tear it down. I'm sitting at my desk, with my desk lamp on, shivering. The house is getting on nerves. But I don’t know why. The dogs outside are howling. I hear the clattering of glass somewhere. I can see thunder and lightning outside my window. This situation is making me feverish. I feel cursed. This house feels cursed. There is something wrong, somewhere, but whether in my mind or whether in this reality, my brain can’t work out. I feel that I have to write this down, I feel as if this might be my……  I don’t dare say this. But I will. I feel that it might be last letters. I'm feverish, struggling to go to sleep. I lay down my pen now.

12:04: Midnight. I can’t stand this. The rain is worse. The wind is worse. My mind is worse. There is no one in this house. No one except the housekeeper and two maids. But they sleep downstairs, in their own rooms. Then who or what is it that I hear, pounding on the stairs, pounding up the corridor? Who is it making the screeching sounds against the windows? Oh, I am filled with terror. And, the wind. Oh, the wind. Outside, it is raging.  I see the huge conifer outside is swaying. It sways to and fro. I wonder in fear, will it fall? I calm myself, it is over a hundred years old. It surely won’t. Darkness sweeps in through the closed window. I have never seen such darkness. I never knew such darkness. What I see outside, I see only when the thunder or lightning flashes the sky. It rips across the sky, tearing apart the darkness for a second, illuminating fearful, but possibly imaginary sights. Once, I could have sworn I saw a face through the window. But this, I'm sure is impossible. It was my terrified imagination. It was impossible because, I’m sure I saw a dark scar across the face’s cheek. How? How did thunder illuminate it? It is not up to me. But, this proved to me that it was but imagination. Because it is this dark feature that makes unique the face of Mr. Ashbeck. My troubled mind must have superimposed his face on the illumination. Ah, again! I hear the sound of powerful footsteps outside my door. It sound like it’s walking up the corridor, coming back down. Oh, what is this terror? I will not and cannot lay down to sleep.

12:24: The Conifer has fallen! The mighty tree has fallen. This storm has broken what was mighty in the tree. It has broken what was mighty in me. There is biting chill in the room. A cold feeling. But I have stopped shivering. Any courage that was left in me is gone. I have succumbed to fear and terror. My body has given up on me. The howling has begun again. But it is louder. More intense. But I do not worry. I cannot worry. I am now void of feelings.

1:02: I am now sure that I have lost my mind. I am seeing things. I am hearing things. Inside my very room. Every now and then, I see wisps of grey light float around my room, hear whispers of voices. Are these sounds and lights… ghosts? Ghosts? If they are, they do not seem to know of my existence. 

1:49: I belong in a mental asylum, the state I am in now. I hear pounding on the stairs, the house is shaking, and the storm raging. Wisps of grey light floats in through the walls and doors. They haven’t taken any human form. There is searing heat burning through the house. I believe it is on fire, but because of the way I am I cannot be sure. It could be fire, it could be broken nervous systems!  No! As I write this the pounding comes near. It reaches my door. No, it cannot be. The door is no longer of solid existence. It is shimmering! All solidity is gone. It cannot be. Outside, through the shimmering, I see the gruesome shape of Ashbeck. Is it him? I need only look at the face. The dark scar. It’s there. He’s there! Oh goodness….. He’s blending through! He’s he/////////

There ends the dairy of Mr. Blake Harker. Two months later, a search party discovered the remains of burnt down house. There were hardly any remains. The house, being so far from civilization was never seen to be on fire. But then again, it need not have been. Through the scattered remains, the search party found evidence of previous life. Parts of burnt bodies were found. These were examined and they didn’t show up to be Mr. Harker’s so we came to the conclusion that they were of the servants. But when we searched for records of people with such DNA we didn’t find any of them or of possible relatives.  Then they found the fragile burnt diary of Mr. Harker. It was burnt around the edges, the pages were extremely fragile, but through painful transcription we discovered the cruel and most possibly supernatural explanation to the disappearances of Mr. Harker and the house. With further research, we found a person named Mr. Ashbeck had never existed, and any letters or emails he had sent to Mr. Harker were never found. We also found that the large mansion that Mr. Harker describes was never officially recorded. What relation Mr. Harker had to Mr. Ashbeck, Mr. Harker never revealed. The letter Mr. Harker wrote to the accountant was never found. Mr. Harker couldn’t make or receive calls because the house was far out of nearby cell phone towers. Why Mr. Harker never mentioned that, we don’t know. The mystery will go on, but inside we know it will never be of success.

Thank You so much for reading! That's the end of 1:49, and I hope you enjoyed it. I did! If you're are looking for another story to follow, check out the Team 35, (http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/the-team-35.html, or follow our Poems Concentrated series, or check back weekly for the Flipside series!

Thanks again for reading, and be sure to +1, share and comment on this article!

The Closed Door

  Chapter 1: The Closed Door

This is a story written by my friend Rayhaan Mubarak (be sure to follow him on twitter @rayhaanmubarak (https://twitter.com/rayhaanmubarak) ) and this is just the first chapter. He’ll be submitting the articles as he writes them, chapter by chapter. And don’t worry, he’s much more dependable than me when it comes submitting the articles. Even I don’t know the story and it’s going to be as much a surprise to me as to you when the storyline slowly fades into existence. He hasn’t decided a name for the story yet, so for now it’ll be titled ‘The Closed Door’.

When you have read this please do share this among your friends and communities. If you have any suggestions to make regarding my blog, please do comment. And remember, you too can submit articles for this blog. If you have anything you think is appropriate for this blog, send it along to my email at spitfirerob@gmail.com. I accept nearly anything on this blog, be it reviews, stories, or poems. It can be anything that you’ve written on, or have an interest writing on. I’ll always give you full credit for it, don’t worry. So, without further ado, enjoy this story!

 It was early in the morning when David woke up. He jumped up from his mattress in the living room and ran to the master bedroom. He had not woken voluntarily. His subconscious forcefully woke him up to respond to his mother, who had been calling his name.

She was terminally ill, and needed David to speak to her in order to calm her whenever she got a panic attack from staying in the silence so long. He reached the closed door of her room and called out to her; “Mom? Are you al-right?” He waited for a reply, even though he knew she did not have the strength to speak.

 It had been almost a year since David’s mother fell ill from the epidemic, but despite this, David could not predict her sudden attacks, when she would call for him and then remain silent for days. David could do nothing but wait till she would call for him again, for her bedroom door was locked, and she had the keys to it. She had locked herself into the room months ago to prevent David from her contracting her condition. As he leaned against his mother’s bedroom door, a pungent scent filled his senses. However, his all-consuming urge to open the door was stronger than its scent.

     Life was far from easy for David. He had lost his job when the epidemic broke out, so couldn't afford good healthcare for his mother. All they had was their ancestral home, with nobody else to help them. David could never leave his mother, and because of her disease’s infectious nature, all he could do was serve her all of her meals through an opening in her door. “I wish you would just open this door”, he would plead, but she wouldn't say a thing.

Ever since she called out to him, David hadn't heard a thing from her. He began to worry. He began to feel alone. Truly alone. This silence was mind numbing, for it had been weeks since he last heard his mother speak.

It was all too much for David. He could not take it any longer. The police sirens and the screams of innocent people dying coming from outside the house no longer meant anything to him. After building up a little courage he finally decided to pick the lock on the door, just so he could see his mother one last time. He grabbed his tools, and in the dead of night he started his work. He picked the lock on the door for hours. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead until he opened the door. “Finally”, he muttered under his breath, as his eyes widened with anticipation. He rushed into the room. But, at the sight of his mother, he fell to the floor.  “All this time I could forgive your silence”, he laments. As he begins to incessantly sob, he realizes that forgiveness no longer mattered. He remembers what his mother used to say when his father would cry; ‘a man does not cry because he is weak, but because he has been strong for too long’. David embraced these words as he embraced his mother, for her silence was now permanent.

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Update:
Hello there!
I have some good news and some bad news for all you loyal followers of Rayhaan's story.
 I'll start with the bad news. This story won't continue. Sadly, Rayhaan doesn't have to the time to continue writing a long complex story like this any more.  He might continue this IF he gets the time, but for now this project is off. :-(
But I think you'd love the good news! Rayhaan might have stopped this story, but he still just hates to upset you guys! ;-) (Okay, maybe he loves writing a lot too.) SO, he decided to begin new series of story that are easier for him to write! So let him explain it in his own words, which I will extract from one of our own conversations:
The Flipside- This is basically an idea i have,where i write random,unrelated short stories,filled with irony and suspense.They may be -------- as bizarre as ------------, but only at specific times.There will also be small doses of horror in this series. Should you choose it, each story will be titled: 'The Flipside ---------- ' and so on and so forth.

As you can see I have left some spaces filled with '--------'. These are in substitute to some names of some other article titles that Rayhaan discussed, which I decided not to reveal publicly as they might spoil some of those POSSIBLE future content. This information is not relevant right now to you. ;-)

So, from now on, Rayhaan will submit a collection of stories called 'The Flipside', that is unless, something else goes wrong. Hope you enjoy it!