Studio Scordatura • Reginald E. Bloom • Footfalls

Footfalls (2002)

Hunched over, and with only one good eye, the old man more than made up for his distracting countenance with a gregarious demeanor. In exchange for the key, I handed over an envelope that contained what was to be my first month's rent. Without counting the bills, he pocketed the money and began making his way down the rickety steps of the front porch, insisting that I contact him if I found anything that was in dire need of repair, aside from anything we had already discussed during the surprisingly brief interview. The landlord claimed he had a pressing appointment, and scarcely had the time to show me around the main floor, let alone the hitherto unseen basement and attic. I sensed, though, his haste had less to do with a tight schedule and more to do with the last tenant's mysterious disappearance.

It was an old house, a bit dilapidated for my tastes, but it was the only thing I could find that would suit my needs as well as my limited financial resources. Having recently moved to the old mill town of Harrisburgh, I was awaiting the news of Professor Benjamin Marsten's retirement, as I was to be the new master of paleontology at Flagstaff College in the nearby city of Severance. I could have found a room in my price range that was much closer to the college itself, but nothing that would accommodate my vast library.

The building was a tiny, two-story number, squeezed between two similarly Victorian structures of larger girth. (The one that I had agreed to rent out was actually only one story, but the attic was—as I soon discovered—not as cramped as one would think, and could actually house a person with limited property quite comfortably. Unfortunate for my pocketbook, the thought of renting it out myself was not an idea I cherished, as I valued my privacy.)

Although the plumbing seemed adequate, the old man warned me up front about the absence of modern electrical conveniences (although still a luxury to some). Apparently, the previous tenant had rewired the house to suit his needs. He had also installed a generator so as to supply his own electricity, but this was rendered useless after a power surge. Had the house been rewired, it would have been undoubtedly outside my price range, and—for the time being—I didn't mind the prospect of reading by candlelight.

As for the history of the house, I knew very little, nor did I care to learn more. I hoped to save enough by the following semester to have the means to find something of equal space and closer to the school. The desire to find something that wouldn't need constant upkeep, as this building threatened, also cinched my decision to not stay for any duration.

With the landlord gone, I decided to finish my tour of my new residence. My first destination was the attic; I could not remain there long, as the accumulation of dust and lack of proper ventilation was stifling. Retracing my steps, though, I noticed the stretch of electrical cables snaking their way around the periphery of the room, and down the stairs. About midway, they vanished, having been pulled through a roughly hewn hole in the base of a step.

The house also boasted a full basement, but the maze of leaky pipes deterred me from storing anything of value therein. The floor was constantly damp, and the smell of mildew was overpowering, so I had little reason to traverse the dank steps below. I did notice, however, the selfsame cables work their way down the wall to my right, following the base of the stairs into the stygian pit below. When I felt more daring, I decided to explore the uninviting cellar, if only to see if the generator that the cables inevitably led to still remained.

My first night in, I turned in early, exhausted from having to lug the innumerable boxes of dusty books up the front steps and into the back room that was to be my study. I spent the following day situating my belongings, and making myself more familiar with the house. Had the previous tenants maintained it better, I might not have been so eager to move on, as it was undeniably cozy, and the neighbors were much to my liking: Quiet, and keeping to themselves. In fact, it was conceivable the floorboards made more racket than anyone who lived in the immediate vicinity. So vociferous they were, I was frightened that the house would collapse with one ill-placed step.

The second night, I slept well, but was occasionally rattled by the settling of the house, or—more often than not—a drip piercing the stillness below. I would get used to it, I convinced myself; it would just take time to adapt to my new environment.

The next day, I decided to venture into the depths below, if only to put a stop to the dreadful leak which kept me up half the night. Gripping my pant legs by the knees, I waded through the slight deluge that covered the basement floor; since I was simultaneously trying to carry a lantern with which to make my way, I quickly opted to stop and roll up my pant legs so I wouldn't have to stoop while I searched.

Locating the source of the dripping, I noticed that it emanated from a slight crack in one of the iron pipes hanging precariously from the ceiling, just beneath where my bedroom stood. I followed its length, and noticed it to be a run-off from the kitchen. I left, but returned shortly thereafter with a cloth that I secured around the cracked joint. (Nearby, I caught sight of the generator, still connected to a bundle of insulated wires that hung from a support beam overhead, the cables lying in the water that pooled around it. From the way it was situated, it was easy to deduce why it was no longer serviceable; in light of this, I was surprised that the previous tenant hadn't died of electrocution.)

Hastily, I made my way back upstairs, desperate for fresh air. With that accomplished, I sealed off the drain in the kitchen sink, having decided to use the one in the bathroom until the landlord could get the pipe replaced.

That night, I slept peacefully, the sound of the dripping having ceased altogether. Peacefully, that is, until I was awoken a little after three in the morning by something entirely unrelated.

Stirred from a deep slumber by a loud slamming, I threw back the covers and unsteadily got to my feet, greeted by the sound of footfalls, across the kitchen floor. This was immediately followed by the creaking of the basement door, and the sounds of someone scrambling down the stairs. Grabbing a candle and lighting it, I rushed to the bedroom door, which stood ajar, and looked out. Nothing but a deafening silence awaited me. I slowly made my way down the hall, trying unsuccessfully to keep the floorboards from responding to my weight. I turned the corner, towards the kitchen where the basement door stood, and noticed that whoever had just passed through here had the courtesy to secure it in his or her wake.

I opened the door, only half-expecting the mouldy smell that tickled my nostrils, and sneezed in rebuttal. Leaning through the doorframe, arm extended, the candleholder shaking ever-so-slightly in my grasp, I peered downwards. Again, nothing, although I swore that I could see something akin to a slight wave in the half-inch of dank water which submerged the concrete floor.

Shutting the door behind me, I raced to the cupboard and withdrew a rather large carving knife. I switched the candle to my weaker left hand, and made my way back to the door, resuming my vigilance there momentarily before descending.

Heart racing, fingers almost numb from the excitement, I scoured the basement, but found nothing. There was no sign of life as the only means of entrance or egress was the door in the kitchen. I was at least expecting to see some form of vermin; although too moist for spiders, the basement would have been a perfect breeding ground for rats, but nothing breathed in these depths outside of myself. Finally, convinced that there were no intruders in my home, I ascended the stairs, chalking up the entire incident to a rather vivid nightmare.

. . .
A week went by without any similar visitations, and I had all but forgotten the incident, having kept myself preoccupied with my books. I had received a telegram the day before saying that my presence would be needed at the college the following Monday. Being Sunday, I decided to turn in early so as to be refreshed for my first day on the job. Although I thoroughly enjoyed lounging around, reading to my heart's content, I was itching to get back into teaching, as that was where I felt most productive.
I was not at all expecting to be awakened in a manner similar and as rude as the one that jostled me the week before. Again, it was a little after three when I heard the sounds; this time, though, the footfalls across the attic floor were enough to rouse me. Eyes barely open, I struggled to light the candle, having succeeded just as I heard the attic door slam shut, and the sounds of more footfalls across the kitchen floor. I raced out in a near-blind panic, the desire to prove that it was more than just a dream greater than the fear that threatened to squelch my beating heart.
As I made it to the end of the short hall, I caught sight of the basement door slamming shut, and soon heard the sounds of bare flesh slapping across the concrete steps below. Throwing open the door, my light glanced off the pale skin of something as it turned the corner at the foot of the stairs. Unarmed, I raced down, ears trying to distinguish between my adversary's footfalls and my own.
In short pursuit, I swung around the corner, and the noises ceased. I moved the light around, hoping to catch sight of the intruder cowering in a corner, but there was nothing. I advanced, checking every nook and cranny I perchanced upon, even if it was not big enough to hold a man. Again, my efforts were only met with a stark silence, save for the sound of my own bare feet causing ripples in the water below, and my own hurried breath.
Enraged, infuriated that my search yielded nothing, I looked over everything a second time, wondering if maybe perhaps there was a secret door I did not know of, or some other cleverly concealed niche that might conceal a person. Much to my chagrin, the walls of the basement—the very foundation of the house—were undeniably solid. The basement—for all intents and purposes—was empty.

. . .
My first day at school was dreadful: My performance was less than what was expected of me, my attention span was severely limited due to the lack of sleep, and my patience with my students was painfully short. Needless to say, I made an impression, but not of the kind I had hoped.
That night, on a whim, I searched the house to see if anything was missing: Food, valuables (of which I had few), books, anything that one would conceivably steal, or have a desire to steal. When nothing seemed out of place or conspicuously absent, I scoured the attic, and found it as bare as the day I moved in. There was only one window therein, and it was securely shuttered from within. There were no locks on either the basement or attic door, so I decided to install them the minute my scheduled allowed for it.
Nights passed with no nocturnal interruptions, although I slept lightly, and kept a lit candle and the aforementioned carving knife near my bed at all times. Within a few days, my performance at school improved substantially; although there were a few reservations about my teaching skills from the faculty, they quickly chalked it up to first-day jitters, and let it pass without any corrections.
In my idle time—of which there was precious little—I decided to look into the history of the house, and of its previous tenants. In regards to the former, most of what I stumbled across would have held little interest to even the staunchest historian. The original owners of the building were similarly uninteresting, but the previous renter was not nearly so droll, and it was with him I kept the focus of my investigation.
The landlord had mentioned in passing how the last tenant—whom he referred to as a fairly unsavory character—was a man by the name of Eduard Salva, a man not without accolades. An inventor by trade, he spent much of his later years, though, rubbing noses not with his colleagues in the scientific community, but with mediums and self-professed psychics. In the last few years of his life, all of his efforts went to developing a device with which he could speak with the dead. Or—at the very least—prove the existence of life after death.
I thought this an odd endeavor for a man with such a strong scientific mind until—after digging a little deeper into his life—I discovered that he had once had an identical twin, Felix, who had died in his early twenties while attending college overseas. Never a particularly outgoing individual, Eduard not only became obsessed with his work following the tragedy, but—as was shown later in life—with communicating with his departed brother. Having proven most of the aforementioned mediums and psychics as charlatans, he eventually realized that only through science could he discover the answers to which he sought.
Curiosity piqued, I soon discovered that-following his mysterious disappearance the previous year—all of the man's belongings had been donated to Flagstaff College. Being a teacher, I was allowed access to the notes he left behind, and I took full advantage of the opportunity.
The notes—which were just as haphazard as the word implies—were voluminous, scarcely readable, undated, and kept in no particular order. Much of the annotations referred to fields of science with which I was wholly unfamiliar, namely physics and hard mathematics. When no theorems or equations were present, it seemed little more than a disjointed, rambling narrative about "breeches in the time/space continuum" and—when avoiding scientific jargon altogether in favor of a more supernatural flavor—"the realm of the dead."
I quickly abandoned the idea of trying to finish all of Salva's notes, as I was not afforded the time nor the energy. At least this is what I convinced myself was the reason for doing so; in retrospect, I think it is probably safe to say that I was finding great discomfort in sacrificing reason in order to grasp the material.

. . .
Having fully recuperated by the end of the week, I decided to bring an end to this nonsense once and for all, as it was distracting me from the demands of my position at the college.
I had soon realized that the visitations were relegated to Sunday evenings—or more precise, early Monday mornings. Both incidences occurred just a few minutes after three o'clock, as I had noticed the hour both times I had been rudely disturbed. As desperate as I was, I was still not inclined to think it was a ghost-for my scientific reasoning didn't usually allow for such fancies. Unfortunately, my critical perspective was being put to the test, as was my natural skepticism, both of which I prided myself on. The first encounter could have easily been—as I previously accepted—a dream; during the second, though, I was undoubtedly in full control of my faculties. Only an hallucinogen could have fostered such strong results, and I knew that this was not responsible for the visitation.
Had Eduard Salva discovered a way to "breech the time/space continuum"? Did this offer him the opportunity he sought to reach the fabled "realm of the dead"? I did not believe he was successful in doing so, as I was not given any reason to make such a unnecessary jump in logic. But, it was up to me to employ the scientific method, to prove that he had done no such thing. This, I felt, would be an easy task, and would take little preparation.
That Saturday, I went out to purchase a lock, and was dismayed to find such forms of security more costly than I would have thought. I did manage to procure one—although it seemed a bit substandard when it came to resiliency—but decided that it would have to suffice. By that evening, I had installed it in the basement door, tickled by the results in that I was not much of a carpenter, but had done a commendable job nonetheless. I put the key on the ring I always carried on my person, and suddenly I was somewhat at ease. Of course, had I been able to do the same for the attic door, I would have felt more secure.
Sunday rolled around, and I did my best to forget about the inevitable. I immersed myself in my work, planning out the class lectures weeks, even a month in advance. Occasionally, I would stop to ponder the odd occurrences that I had witnessed these last few weeks, but decided that this was a vain pursuit, at best. This night, I hoped to clear up that which had consumed my every thought for well over a week.
I had decided to stay up and see it through, even though I had school in the morning and needed my rest. I would be weary, but at least I will have lain to rest the incidences that had plagued me. Besides, I was sacrificing one day of lax composure for what would inevitably be months of the same.
I spent much of the evening sitting at my desk in the study, but soon found my back aching from the position. By midnight, I decided to withdraw to my bedroom to read, as the comfort of my bed was preferable to sitting in that horridly unaccommodating chair any longer than necessary. As I left the study, I took a moment to check the lock on the basement door, and found it still latched.
With a dog-eared volume of Virgil's Aeneid in hand, I bunched up my pillows, piling them against my headboard. If I was going to be forced to wait up until daybreak, I was determined that it be in comfort.
The last thing I distinctly remember is hearing the clock strike one, and that only two hours of my vigil remained; I assume that I was caught by slumber's mind-numbing embrace not long thereafter. With thoughts of Virgil's epic still fresh in my mind, I faded, the purpose of my stay quickly forgotten amidst Mother Night's soothing lullaby.
On cue, I was almost thrown out of bed by the calamity above. As I struggled to my feet, I found my foot snagged by a stray bed sheet that had worked its way around my leg, and fell to the floor. I got to my feet just as I heard the attic door slam shut, and the perfunctory footfalls. With candle in hand, and knife in the other, I bolted for the door, and yanked it open. My light swayed, trying to avoid the edge of the door as it swung past me. The tiny flame flickered, then was extinguished by the sudden gust of air, but not before I caught sight of it, coming for me, pale arms outstretched, mouldy skin reflecting the meager light, its countenance scarred by a sardonic grin, lips pulled back, taut, its yellowed teeth chattering all the while. I choked on the smell of mildew that preceded it.
Without any means of egress, it now came for me, for I had the only key on my person.
I leapt to the side, in an effort to avoid the inevitable, and may have succeeded had I not been impeded by the doorjamb. The impact toppled both the creature and myself, and we fell to the bedroom floor with a clamor. Although the candle was knocked from my grasp, I held steadfast to the carving knife, knowing it was my only means of survival. As I tried to pull myself away from its grip, I felt a sharp pain at my shin. Whether it was the revenant's teeth, or talon-like claws, I did not know, but it had managed to latch onto me, tearing into my flesh like some wild beast.
I cried out in pain, and struck out with the knife, blindly, unaware that I could just as easily carve my own leg under the sheet of darkness. The first blow struck the floor, and I could hear the tip of the blade snap off as it was caught between the floorboards. The second, and third, though, struck the re-animated corpse, although it let out no howls of pain, no cries of anguish. It loosened its grip, but I was relentless, and continued to stab at it until I could no longer feel its insidious touch. Freed, I scrambled to my feet, and fled from the house, knife still in hand.
Police found me, about a mile down the road, and it took three of them to subdue me, but they finally succeeded in calming me down. I told them of the incident and—eyes rolling from my wild story—they reluctantly accompanied me back to the house where the waking nightmare had occurred. Their search yielded nothing, though, and they insisted that I go with them to the station until they could sort the matter out. Despite the duress I was suffering-both from the emotional trauma and the wounds that caused me great pain-I was well aware that they wished to detain me until a psychiatric evaluation could be made.
Although I did not cherish the thought of being kept behind bars, I knew I would at least be safe while confined. Obviously, I had not succeeded in killing the unholy creature that had attacked me—if it was even capable of dying a second time—which meant it was still out there.
I could only make wild assumptions and unfounded hypothesis as to the strange occurrences that had befallen the house and its occupants, but this I did, as my time allows for little more than this.
The creature I had succeeded in temporarily fending off was from the other side that Salva was determined to reach. It's only means of egress from a world that offered it nothing but the pain of life had been denied it, and so it sought to make its way back. Unfortunately for this poor soul, the rift that Salva had accidentally opened in the basement—again, its only means of egress—was the selfsame doorway that the scientist had purposefully opened in his attic laboratory. Salva had finally found the gateway he sought to traverse; in his stead, he had created a dimensional flux in which this creature had been caught, forced to retrace its own footfalls for all eternity.
But this was all it knew, the only thing akin to a solution to its damning existence... and so it was imminent that it would come for the key I held.

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