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An Old Barn's Memory

Peace ends only with pain

By Abrianna LeamingPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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The shadows slip along the planks of ancient wood, their soft sighs undetected by anything other than the forgotten souls who have nestled themselves among the stale hay and dust, remnants of a time where this old barn used to be new, freshly painted and crowded with beings of flesh and warmth.

Now the doors are closed, undisturbed, the only light slithering through the yawning frame of the building and its single, lonely window.

An old saddle rests on its wooden perch, coated in dust and mildew. A bridle with a rusted bit hangs on the wall. If one were to listen closely, their eyes shut tight and their ears wide open, they would hear the echo of hoofbeats, tethered to the barn by memory.

Astride the saddle is a wisp of silver. This wisp could easily be dismissed as a trick of the light if one allowed their gaze to slide from the luminescence and onto something far less interesting. But if one were to hold steady and look carefully, they would note something spectacular; the wisp was no trick, but rather a being, a fragment of a soul who clings feverishly to its memories of galloping in tall grasses, hair caught by the wind, heart thudding along with the hooves of its mount.

A worn bucket sits crooked in the back of the barn, its metal tarnished by age. Another wisp flits inside, its hue reminiscent of the bucket's original silver sheen. The sound of grain sliding into the bucket's embrace blends with the sound of hoofbeats, and this second wisp clutches at its memory of holding the bucket still while a velvet nose snuffles inside, hunting for each tiny piece of feed.

Placed lovingly on the rotting wood of the stall door is a brush, its bristles tangled with old threads of chestnut hair, its handle worn smooth from years of being held by palms slick with summer sweat. A third wisp embraces the handle and flickers with joyful mourning as it recalls sweeping the brush against a silky neck.

This quiet aura of memory is not the only breath that holds this barn in its grasp. If one were to inhale deeply and sharpen their eyes, they would find within the many shadows a pitchfork leaning against the worn wooden wall, its metal tines still flecked with crimson, its four lethal points grinning with the limited light.

And if one looked even closer, kept their breath caged in their throat so as not to disturb the silence, they would catch a glimpse of a fourth wisp, this one darker than the other three. An oily malignance coats this shred of soul, churns within its resplendence. If one could bear it, if they dismissed the hoofbeats and the sound of grain and the peaceful whisk of the brush, they would detect the muffled sounds of a scream.

A scream that the barn tries courageously to stifle, if only to forget that single tarnished memory of blood and pain.

But how could the barn be the one attempting to muffle the memory, one asks. Well, what a foolish question.

Has one never stood in an ancient place, its walls and ceiling soaked through with years of life? Has one never held themselves still and silent, senses open to the building’s memories? The longer a place has stood, the heavier the presence, weighted down by its days.

And this barn in question is old, indeed, so old that its weary heart yearns for the summers past, where children laughed and found peace within it.

Until that cold, single day where something snapped, and violence snaked inside. When summer had shivered into autumn, the sky turbulent with steel clouds and thunder. When that pitchfork had been lifted and wielded so brutally, it broke a soul into multiple threads.

The old barn is sickly, its beams rotted through. The shutters of its lone window break when a wind curls by, and the slivers of wood fall to the grasses that have grown tall over the years since that tarnished day. Sloping fields of wheat surround the barn, and as the ancient awareness watches, another storm folds across the sky, metal gray and furious.

Lightning forks down, dry and electric. It crashes against the top of the barn, and an unearthly shriek rips from its planks as a spark flies and catches.

Soon the place is shrouded in writhing heat, stark against the gray of the storm.

If one were to stay inside the barn, unbothered by the rippling, gluttonous flames, they would be witness to the end. Of the wisps sighing alongside the shadows, relieved to unlatch from their perches. Of the hay falling into ash, of the saddle boiling into nothing, of the bucket melting and the brush crackling, the groaning of the old barn as it is finally given its rest.

And one would note that the fourth and darkest wisp would fall last, shivering with terror, at the flames that mark a horrifying beginning just as clearly as they mark a long-awaited end.

supernatural
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About the Creator

Abrianna Leaming

Abrianna is an author whose novel writing is imbued with her passion for exhilarating stories that are set in worlds that captivate. She’s diligently working on her next project, a novel set in a young world presided by very old gods.

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