Flash Fiction Contest: Nocturne

Someone was knocking at the door. It wasn't a loud knock; not loud enough to awaken her-if she had managed to fall asleep, that is-but it was sharp and abrupt, with an undercurrent of authority. She decided to pretend she had no idea who it might be at this time of night.

The unexpected sound must have pulled her out of a deep daze, because she could hardly remember how she'd ended up lying on the floor, next to her bed. She sat up, leaned against the wall, and brought her legs up to her chest. The wall was cold, but the carpet was soft and thick. She dug her toes into the welcoming pile, thinking that even the heaviest stomping would be rendered noiseless by a carpet this thick. Maybe as noiseless as her presence in her husband's life? (Or was that invisible?)

She hugged her knees tightly and pushed her back against the wall with all her strength. If she had one magic wish, she'd wish she could merge with this cold, cold wall that propped her despair. Oh, how I wish... I wish I could just disappear into this dark room, become one with its wood and stone, haunt its every creak. If there is no place in this house for me, then let me be home to him. Like she was. Like I could never be in this life.

All of a sudden, she felt ashamed of herself, of her lack of self-esteem. What kind of person would sell out so cheaply, in the middle of a fantasy involving a magic wish, no less? No, self-pity was all wrong. She was strong. She'd show them. They thought her young and inexperienced? They dismissed her as timid and confused? She'd show them. All she had to do was believe in herself. They say your whole life passes before your eyes before you die, she thought. Well, if this is the case, I must be dying a thousand deaths a day because not a moment passes that I do not think of my stupid life-being poor, being a nobody, being trampled upon... being in love, being his wife... being her rival. Enough!

For the first time in months, she knew she couldn't take it any longer, and had to do something about it. I am the mistress of this house, she murmured. And then again, with confidence: I am the mistress of this house!

The knocking on the door became louder, but not much.

She couldn't care less: She felt exhilarated, charged with new life. She looked around her room, taking in every detail as if for the first time. Translucent drops of moonlight trickled through a cloud and bestowed a quivering sheen to the intricate carvings of her bed, where the long, delicate stems of the most perfect roses coiled and meshed and mingled in ever-repeating patterns.

She reached out and touched the curves of the wood, her thought processes surrendering to the gentle lines traced by her fingertips. Her world shrank down to those ebony pathways, the roundness of the flowers, the interplay of the leaves and stems, so graceful, so fluid, like rills swelling into rivers on their journey to the sea... Round and round the lines wound and wove, in a relentless vortex of alliteration-round, rose, river... ar... r... R!

And just like that, her old fears cut through her, like sea water rushing into a wreck.

The knocking became too loud to be ignored. (Had she cried out? Screamed?)

Dutifully, she got up, straightened her nightgown. With practiced ease, her posture assumed the guise of submission. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

She knew, only too well, who had been knocking with such persistence.

She opened the door.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Danvers?" mumbled the Girl.