Murals nosleep

I’m sitting here in the foyer of my new house, staring up at the exposed beams and hand painted murals, wondering what in the hell I’m going to do. I’ve never owned a house before, and never thought I would own one with hand painted murals. This was supposed to be our house, but because of her, our house turned into my house. I never anticipated that I would be sitting in my foyer looking up at the exposed beams, wondering why the man I loved left me, or if I’m losing my mind. If this sounds like the ramblings of a crazy woman, I apologize, it’s just that I haven’t had a lot of experience with writing out my thoughts and so much has happened that I’m not sure where to start. I wonder if would have been different if he were here, or if we both would be living the same nightmare. I can’t explain this to anyone I know, or ask someone to come here; I don’t want anyone else in my current predicament. Besides all of that, my friends would think that I’ve lost my mind, especially since they all know about my fiancés affair. However, the anonymity that the internet provides means that I can share and be viewed in a purely anonymous venue, which is much more preferable than being judged by the people I have to see on a daily basis, or bringing anyone here that may be harmed. I appreciate your thoughts on what I’m about to tell you, and any thoughts on how I may be able to deal with this better is most certainly welcome. This house – this beautiful, gorgeous, behemoth of a house – was intended to be my marital home. He and I were to settle down and start a family, grow old, and do all of those things that people do when they are in love. But, here I am, sitting in the foyer, typing on my laptop, alone.

Let me be perfectly honest, alone is a bit of a misnomer. In fact, I don’t think that anyone can ever be alone in this house, or else there would be dire consequences. I bought it cheap; incredibly cheap, even when you consider the current state of our illustrious economy. I don’t know much about the previous owners except that they were having the house built for them when they passed away, they never lived in it, not one day. The house was never finished, the realtor told me that there were supposed to be hand painted murals in every room; it’s a shame that they never got that done. I’m the first person to dwell within the walls of their dream home; but the house immediately gives one the impression of feeling lived in. It creaks like a new house should and moans like no house ever should. The stairs are at the back of the foyer, furthest away from the front door, and are of the wooden spiraled variety; every so often I perceive the soft sound of feet climbing up or down them, or catch the faintest glimpse of a hand gliding along the polished banister. Those feet never reach the bottom of the stairs and the hand always disappears as soon as I start to focus on it; but I know I’m safe here, under the murals.

I’ve been here, in this house, for just over two months. Not long in the grand scheme of things. It is, however, long enough to know that there is something terribly wrong within these walls. The only place I feel safe is here, in the foyer, beneath the hand painted murals and exposed beams. Perhaps it is the knowledge that the door to the outside is just a step away, or perhaps it is something about the murals themselves. Those vines, trees and rosy-cheeked cherubs enveloping me in a false sense of security; or perhaps they are what keeps the menacing monstrosities at bay. My bedroom is not safe from them. Neither is any room that doesn’t have the completed murals. There are only two that have the murals finished besides the foyer, but they are at opposite ends of the house, and I’m not entirely excited about crossing the long corridors that lead to and from them. I’ve moved my bed down here, along with a cooktop, small refrigerator, my clothes, and anything else that I could think I may need. There is a restroom adjacent to the foyer, so don’t think for a moment that I’m doing my business anywhere else. This must seem crazy, having a whole mansion of a house, and living exclusively in the smallest part of it because you are afraid of the boogeymen. Even reading these words on my screen I want to laugh. I keep trying to tell myself that it isn’t real. I keep repeating that it is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

I almost believe that too, until I lift my eyes from my screen and stare into the darkness above the foyer, where the spiral staircase ends and the landing begins. They creep about in the shadows, giving movement to the darkness. They know that I can see them, and I know that I’m not supposed to. We’re supposed to be oblivious to their appearances, and see them as nothing more than shadows. That’s why the house was built, to seal them off from the world. But they never finished the murals, and now I have nowhere to go, except to sit here in the foyer and stare up at the exposed beams and the happy cherubs, wondering what the hell I’m going to do

Submitted November 20, 2014 at 12:19AM by CeruleanBox http://ift.tt/1AiQWKq nosleep