The Barn The Barn Bloody hell, am I tired, thought the tramp as he reclined in the shade of a large oak tree, or at least it would be shade if it was not so cloudy. He pulled his plastic bag of meagre possessions towards him as he buttoned up his tatty coat against the chilly wind. A pang of hunger in the tramp’s stomach made him curse his decision to leave the city centre for the day in favour of a walk through what constituted as country side. The reality of the landscape was just hills and hedgerows with the occasional tree. He thought solitude would have been preferable to the endless jeers and occasional beatings, but at least rummaging through any bin that is close at hand nearly always resulted in something to eat. Sighing, the tramp surveyed his surroundings. Nothing but grassy slopes and – wait, what was that, some run down barn of some sort on that hill to his left. He immediately rose and began to walk towards it. The walls consisting of timber planks seemed in a state of ill repair. The roof rose to a point and was thatched and hole ridden. As he approached the front door, closer inspection revealed protruding nails and yellowing split wood. Birds sang bleakly in their nests that the roof provided. Their love calls in the near silence of the hillside seemed more melancholy than cheerful with only the keening of the wind providing alternative sound. “Not much chance of food here,” the tramp moaned aloud, “bet it ain’t bin in for years.” But after the tiring walk up the hill with his stomach gnawing at his insides he decided that he could do with a rest. He opened the door and stepped inside. As soon as he saw the diced meat and bread on plates sitting on a small wooden table he rushed into the barn, not believing his luck. The barn door swung shut with an enormous gust of wind, plunging the interior of the barn into complete darkness. “What the--.” The tramp turned and stumbled, losing all sense of direction. His well-worn sole slid on what felt like damp hay and he crashed into the table, overturning its promise of hunger relief. Were there no windows in this barn? The tramp remembered that there were not, but how could the door be fitting so perfectly as to reduce light to zero in a building as decrepit as this? The tramp attempted to rise but slipped again, landing heavily on his belly. Childhood fears of darkness assaulted him as he scrabbled for something to aid him in rising. All he received for his efforts was a handful of muddy straw, he would have to crawl up to the wall. A distinct fluttering made him look up into yet more darkness. He might have been blind for the complete lack of light he had in the barn. It was just a bird, he reassured himself but he was afraid to say it out loud in case he alerted it. The tramp crawled forward slowly, so that he would not end up hitting his head hard on the wall. In his haste to devour the food he had failed to examine the interior of the barn, which must surely house inner brick walls to ensure this perfection of blackness. When he reached what felt like a wall he realised it was of similar construction to the outer timber planks. Pulling himself up was an easy task, but in the darkness there was no image he could get a bearing on to pin-point any directions. Following the walls round seemed to be the best way to get to the door, so the tramp began at once. Protruding nail heads bit into his sweeping hands at every opportunity. The tramp bit his tongue to prevent himself from crying out for fear of - he did not know what he feared. The darkness enveloped him completely and he longed to make a noise to break the illusion of his deafness, which only emphasised his blindness, but dared not to. The constant black view taunted him, daring him to utter a sound, safe in the knowledge that he would not. By the time he reached a corner of the barn his hands were raw and throbbing. This lesser pain reminded him of his intense hunger and he remembered the food on the table. That food was fresh so obviously someone lived in or at least visited the barn. “Shit, I’d better get out of here before they come back.” Thought the tramp. He hastily reached along the wall, and impaled his hand on the sharp end of a thick nail. He reacted by pulling his hand away from the wall provoking an intense pain in his palm, which jolted like an electric current all the way to his shoulder. The tramp screamed and stepped backwards. His foot ground into a slice of the spilled meat and slid away from him, crunching into the wall. The fall was quick and harsh and so was the blow to the tramp’s head as it struck the overturned table, resulting in unconsciousness. The tramp awoke, not knowing how long he had been asleep. He opened his eyes to see where he was. After about a minute he realised that his eyes were open and the uninviting darkness reminded him of his location. There was a loud fluttering above him. His memory of entering the barn fleeted away like a lost dream and he could not recall if this was the same noise he had heard before, or if it was louder than the last time. His hand existed as numbness and pain. He was sweating excessively and his stomach seemed ready to devour his internal organs in order to alleviate his hunger. Finding the table behind his head, the tramp righted it and used it to drag himself up. His hand flared in agony and he moaned. The sound was swallowed immediately by the darkness and an insistent fluttering followed it. It was undeniably closer. Looking for the source of the sound was useless. The noise was merely there for long enough to startle the tramp and then extinguished like the light in the barn when the door had slammed shut. An idea came to the tramp. He could use the table to search along the walls with, that way he would not cut his hands. But even this tack thwarted him. As he grabbed a leg a sizeable splinter slipped almost with ingenious purpose beneath his thumb-nail. The tramp threw the table in frustration and was disappointed to only hear a muffled bump as it struck the floor, not reaching any of the invisible walls. The fluttering came again, this time it seemed close enough to touch the source. In a panic the tramp flapped his arms around blindly but failed to touch anything. Then the banging began. The tramp cried out in shock and the fluttering resumed, joined by distant flutters further from the first, far into the emptiness of the dark. “It must be the door,” the tramp thought, rushing towards the sound. For a moment he was glad of the darkness because he was sure that the loud reverberations must surely be causing the entire barn to move, and if he saw that he was certain he would die of a heart attack awaiting the door to open. The tramp did not care if it was the wind or the barn’s inhabitant returning, escape was paramount. The fluttering filled the darkness, becoming more deafening than the rhythmic banging of the door. The tramp cried out in terror. Immediately he felt claws wrench at his scalp. Screeches or squeaks or screams echoed throughout the black. The fluttering intensified as wings beat at the tramp’s ears. He reached up to seize the creature but it evaded him and flew away. The pounding stopped and the endless fluttering ceased almost instantly. The tramp stepped forward and clutched at the wall, searching for a door handle. The silence and darkness hung on his spirit, tempting madness. At last his frenzied hand found what felt like a door handle and pulled. The door did not open. Maybe that was why the banging stopped. The person could not open the door. The tramp was trapped. He cried out in misery and the fluttering recommenced throughout the barn. Claws scrabbled across his face and without warning sank into his eyes. The tramp grabbed the creature at his face and crushed it. A piercing shriek filled the emptiness and he was immediately buffeted by flying ventures, scratching and tearing at his body. As he fell forward he struck the door, which opened. Then he remembered that the door opened outwards. His attackers immediately retreated from him but this was no consolation for his nightmare was to be eternal. The tramp ran blindly from the barn, taking its darkness with him.
Copyright © 2000 Glen Pearson |