The Spire
Moving homes can come with all kinds of stress, but nothing prepared him for this…
--
With strange sulking shadows and unfamiliar shapes, spending your first night in a new home was always unsettling. But when he was awoken by a strange chime, so distant and almost inaudible, it didn’t help his nerves.
His thoughts raced with possibilities. It was just a neighbour’s clock. Maybe it was an animal outside. Probably a drunkard.
He locked his eyes on the ceiling, wide open, cutting through the obscure darkness and waited.
And waited.
Nothing. He was tempted to get up and investigate but his covers pulled him into the comfort of sleep. He resigned.
8:24am
Another chime woke him this time; a reminder that his day was beginning. His hand emerged from the covers and reached out towards the side table — his knuckles bumping against the wooden frame. Ah, yes. He was in his new place. He reached upwards a smidgen more to find his phone and switched the alarm off.
Another day was dawning.
As he swung his legs from the covers and the cold morning chill met his naked torso — his thoughts drifted to last night. He pondered what the noise could have been for a passing moment but thought nothing much of it — seceding the thought in favour of his morning routine.
12:01pm
His lips graced the bittersweet taste of a sugared coffee; a cappuccino to be exact. The bench was as comfortable today as it was the last and his sandwich just as delicious.
Something about mustard, tomatoes, lettuce, ham, with a dash of butter between the breaded slices made his day more bearable.
Despite all these positive stimuli he found his thoughts fixating back on the chime he’d heard. Was it a chime? The fog of drowziness wasn’t helping his recollection of it but to what end did it matter?
Just enjoy your lunch.
6:34pm
The commute home was the same as always; cramped and unpleasant. The only saving grace for the bus was the price and the only way it was tolerable was the book he kept in his bag.
He was reading a wonderfully terrifying story after discovering the genre of cosmic horror — H.P. Lovecraft was a delight to read, ignoring the racism of course.
A product of its time.
He now sat at his desk. A sacred place unlike his work desk to which he felt shackled. This desk was his and he’d curated it to be a fortress of solitude in a place that was alien to him.
None of the furniture was his, nor the décor, nor the design of the apartment that he was — for now — calling his home. He never did like the light blue hue of the paint. He had chosen to continue reading today as he had begun an exciting part in At The Mountains of Madness.
He turned the page, slowly, gently, and as he did so caught the glimpse of something out the corner of his eye. He let his attention drift from the novella in front of him out the window. His vantage point five floors up allowed him to see out across the city skyline. It was a black towering bulk that cut upwards towards the sky that had caught his attention.
European cities were known for their churches but this spire looked oddly out of place. It rose like a dandelion from grass — distinct and imposing from it surrounding peers.
He eyed it for a moment, just a moment, then went back to reading.
1:04am
He awoke to a thick smoke clogging his airway. The acrid stench and intense heat assaulted his throat. His airways felt like they were alight. He could feel the flames envelop his bed and the malicious crackling of fire run ablaze around him. He tried with all his might to break free but something was pinning him to his bed.
Suddenly, without warning, he was torn from the bed, naked, and thundered to the floor with a loud thump.
His hands clawed at the carpet all around him and as he opened his eyes, he realised that he was on the floor of his bedroom. The lights were off and the air was cool.
He sat up to those sulking shadows and unfamiliar shapes with not a flame in sight.
9:21am
He was just through the door at work; the culprit being his disturbed sleep. Petrified was not a word he often used to describe his emotional state but that word came the closest. Sleep was something that eluded him for the majority of the night after he woke.
“Sam, are you even listening?” the shrill, uncomfortably high voice of the HR lady interjected. Sam gave nothing but a nod in reply. “Then act like it.”
He let her rumble her guts about his late arrival, all the while paying little attention to the words coming out her mouth. The drone of noise she called language wasn’t capturing Sam’s attention.
The dream? It was. It felt so real.
Sam had never been a lucid dreamer. He often found himself incapable of dreaming — or, at the very least, remembering his dreams.
The smoke. How awful it tasted.
The flames. How they blistered his skin.
The fear. How he’d felt nothing like it.
“Okay, you can go,” were the only word’s out her mouth Sam actively picked up on.
He left.
7:04pm
He was at his home’s desk again after another gruelling day at work. Like the night before last he were reading At The Mountains of Madness and was thoroughly enjoying the tale.
Even now, in the modern age, the continent of Antarctica was somewhat mysterious. So far away, desolate, and unexplored. It was no wonder such a place was inspiration for Lovecraft.
He finished the sentence he was on and closed the novella over; it was time to make some dinner. As he stood from his desk he caught a glimpse of the spire in the distance — the late evening light glinting off its features.
It loomed over the skyline and the more he watched it, the more a sick feeling welled inside him.
Nonsense.
He left his desk for the kitchen.
2:44am
Sam could feel the smoke gathering around him in a semi-circular whirl of chaos. The flames rippled up the walls in trance-like rhythmic motions. The heat was-
The chime woke him. It startled him.
Sam darted upright in the darkness; his fright attributed to not only his dream but the strident octave of what he’d heard. He wasn’t thinking too hard when he jumped from his bed and found himself careening towards his apartment’s window.
The city skyline was beautiful; a mesh of street lights and moon light that calmed him. This calm he felt, however, was short lived.
His eyes fell upon the Spire.
It was in this moment a deep twang of primal fear struck him and an uncontrollable shiver crawled up his spine. He couldn’t see it, but what he could see was a distinct shadow outline itself from the city lights. In a strange way, where his eyes had failed him, his instinct had not.
In the way morbid curiosity demands attention and cannot be broken with ease, so too was his attention held by the Spire. It was only for a moment it commandeered him but a moment was enough.
He wasn’t quite sure why but he didn’t need to know. Sleeping again, this night, proved difficult.
1:39pm
Sam had called in sick, much to the annoyance of the HR lady. He didn’t care. He’d spent most of the morning side of noon in bed and now sat at his table — not his desk.
He was eating a very late breakfast for his lunch and planned to do nothing today.
His mind was stolen by the Spire. Or maybe you choose to give it over.
He’d placed a call with the doctor which yielded no results.
Insomnia passes. Nightmares are common, Sam could still hear the words rolling around inside his mind — sharing it with his recollection of the dreams. Stress induced insomnia is normal. Take some rest.
And so he did.
1:01am
He could hear the crackle of flames but despite his eyes being wide open, all he could see was thick, black smoke. He knew he was dreaming but only became aware of this fact when he realised his eyes weren’t stinging.
But his body didn’t obey his semi-conscious mind. He was but a mere passenger trapped within the confines of his body as it meandered from his bed towards his bedroom door.
He tore it open in a bid — he thought — to escape the smoke, but it only thickened in the hallway beyond. And so, naturally, the front door became his body’s focus. He lumbered towards it and, in a strange notion he couldn’t describe, felt that his body was injured somehow.
His hand reached for the handle.
The sensation of a cold door handle filling the centre of his palm woke him. He was opening his front door.
He paused, deathly still, in a state of bewilderment.
He then fell backwards as if something had frightened him, the door slamming shut, and he came to a rest on the carpeted floor. He was still in his bed clothes and, as he glanced around the hallway, realised he wasn’t dreaming.
It was only then the faint, hazy memory of an injury persisted from his dream. He was horrified to see a deep black splotch on the side of his leg indicating blood.
8:03am
“We’ll require a Doctor’s note.” the high-pitched voice demanded.
“Naturally,” Sam answered.
“Produce one within twenty four hours. You can forward it to my email address.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Get better soon,” the line cut before Sam could reply. Bitch.
Sam’s next call was placed to the Doctor who, upon hearing the phrase ‘sleep walking’ decided to take his case a little more seriously. He was scheduled to be seen in two days time. A note was, thankfully, provided.
After calming his nerves, he’d examined his leg again to observe the superficial puncture wound on his calf muscle. He still had no idea how it had gotten there. This, too, was mentioned to the Doctor.
He wasn’t sure how to fill his day and as he pondered what to do his eyes found themselves resting upon the Spire.
11:23am
It looked far more menacing close up and he’d found that distances are hard to judge — the Spire was much further away from his home than he had anticipated.
The window and doors were outlined in a thick black stain; they were boarded over with massive wooden beams reinforced with rusted iron bars. The roof — constituted of rotten timber — had collapsed inward to expose its insides to elements. Weeds had also started to occupy its structure. These weeds were, however, somewhat wilted despite the immaculate weather of Spring.
It was a strange, uncomfortable sight to be sure but he couldn’t quite place why. It was only when his eyes met the Spire — without any visible bell — that his uneasy feeling became justified.
“Young man. Are you okay?” the old, measured voice chimed from behind him. Sam — realising someone was talking to him — turned to see an old woman watching him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Her face was gentle and her hair flowed in the breeze. It seemed this stranger had aged gracefully, and as she stood with her cane, he felt a peace wash over him at her query.
“Yes, i’m fine, thanks,” he replied.
“Okay dear,” she nodded her head towards the abandoned Church building, “Not many people stop and give it attention is all.”
“I can see it from my home, it looks interesting.”
“A good a reason as any, I suppose,” she fixed her glasses with a light chuckle, “well, I best be getting on my way. Have a nice day.” The woman turned to leave but before she left, Sam stopped her,
“Do you know what happened here?” The woman turned back to face him as he nodded to the Church, “Why it’s boarded up?” The woman’s expression changed suddenly; her sparkle of curiosity dropped to a scowl of contempt but one of purpose.
“Oh, I know alright. Terrible it was, terrible.” Sam didn’t interject as she paused, he imagined she’d wanted him to ask, “The first time I knew of it was in the 50s, when I was a small girl. It had already been abandoned for decades before my time. My parents warned me to stay away, and so I did.”
“Were you not curious?” Sam asked.
“Oh, of course! Any child would be. I was a shy girl, so my curiosity was fulfilled by my Grandfather. He’d had a hand in building it at the turn of the century, you see,” Sam nodded along, “very skilled with his hands. Brilliant at what he did.” The women’s thoughts appeared to drift with her silence before she continued, “It wasn’t long after it had been built when it happened.”
“When what happened?” Sam asked. The woman pointed to the sky, then to the roof,
“Something came from the heavens, crashed right through that there roof. Terribly violent.” Her expression crumpled to one of sadness, “claimed the lives of the flock it did.”
“Oh,” Sam wasn’t sure how to reply so he went for an easy question, “What was it?” Sam asked. The woman looked to him, a somewhat defensive expression taking hold of her aged features,
“You’re very curious about this here Church.” It was the first time he’d been made aware of the various questions he’d asked, all in short succession.
“Sorry, I’ve been told I have a curious personality.” She nodded,
“So it would seem,” she paused, “nobody knows what it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Police, fire crews, even scientists came with all their fancy machines at one point. Before and after the war. Nobody found out what it was,” her expression devolved back into sadness, “whatever it was caused a fire. That’s what took the poor souls inside. More than once, might I add. Every time it was re-built, flames would take it.”
“Every time?” Sam asked. The woman nodded slowly as her eyes cast over the Church’s shrill remains,
“Every time.”
The conversation didn’t last much longer after that before the woman was on her way. Sam, with a sick feeling welling in his stomach, decided it was time to head back to his flat.
3:04am
The chime seemed to echo in his mind as it ripped him from his sleep. It really was echoing, almost with a reverb, even after he woke. The dead of night welcomed him with its still darkness as he lay staring into the abyss.
It was only after he tossed to his left hand side to go back to sleep that he became aware of an unusual noise; almost like a faint hiss. Try as he might, his mind wasn’t letting him dismiss it, and so he stood from his bed in a bid to investigate.
You’ve gone mad.
At first he couldn’t quite identify if the hiss were real but after some time wandering around the room he came to the conclusion that is was, and that it were coming from the other room.
When he left and emerged into his main living space, the first thing he did was reach for the light. The sound was stronger here and seemed to be coming from his open plan kitchen; so he followed his senses.
His astute sense of hearing took him to the gas stove where — much to his surprise — the gas hob was turned on. It was only as he became privy to this information that the smell of gas in the air assaulted his nasal passage.
You really have gone mad.
He turned the knob anti-clockwise to switch off the open gas tap. It was when he removed his hand from the knob that the room suddenly dipped to darkness. It was only in the darkness that he his senses kicked back in and he found his hand clutching the cold knob of the cooker. A cold knob that — a mere split second prior — he had let go of.
Taken aback, Sam recoiled from the hob and ran to the light switch. He flicked it on to illuminate the room. He wished he hadn’t.
As he looked to his free hand he held a lighter and when his sight found the hob, it was open and the smell of gas filled the air.
He was naked. He hadn’t gone to sleep naked.
10:54am
He had taken the earliest bus he could book a ticket for — a 7:01am express — and it wasn’t cheap.
But it was necessary.
He felt a strange twang of safety as he stepped from the coach after such a long journey. Home always had the same feeling for him. The connecting bus service — the local one — would be along shortly.
Before long he was on the 32 to the next town over.
Home.
1:44pm
“So, how’s the big city?” An obligatory yet vague question posed by his father.
“It’s nice. A bit busy, but nice,” Sam replied.
“And the people?” His mother chimed in.
“They mostly keep to themselves but friendly.”
“Not as friendly as here I reckon,” it was his father speaking again. This comment received a tut of approval from his mother.
“No. Never as friendly as here,” was the only real and acceptable answer he could give. He really wanted to tell them about the Spire, the insomnia, the sleep walking, the stress.
He really did.
But they wouldn’t understand. They would sympathise, not understand. His mother and father were happy to see him, no matter if it were under false pretences, and he wasn’t going to taint that feeling. It had been several months since his last trip home and the family dog — Chip — was also happy to see him.
The soft fur, floppy ears, and uncontrollable excitement of a Labrador made him feel safe and loved. These were two emotions he desperately needed right about now.
“You must have left so early to arrive here by lunch,” his mother said, keeping conversation alive. That was always her strong suit.
“Yeah, it was a last minute decision.”
“Oh,” his father sounded hurt.
“I had been wanting to come out for a while,” Sam continued, “and just decided to get up and go.” It was a decent save. They bought it.
It wasn’t long before a hearty lunch was on the table.
11:23pm
It had been a lovely day and a much needed one. His nerves were at ease, his belly was full, and his emotions running high in the good way. Perhaps a visit to home was all that he’d needed to diffuse the stress of moving.
It seems there really is no place like home.
As he lay on his childhood bed, comfortable, safe, he let his mind wander into the realm of sleep — slowly, surely, and at peace.
11:24pm
A chime woke him.
Before You Go…
This story was written by Stewart Storrar, a writer from Glasgow, Scotland. Stewart is a lover of Science Fiction, Cosmic Horror, and Fantasy; with a specific leaning towards darker tales of the human condition.
Aside from short fiction, Stewart loves to write poetry and is currently working on his debut novel. He runs his passion project — Lore Publication — in his free time.
You can follow his work here on Medium, via Lore Publication, or his social channels.
