The Soul Trapped Inside and Out (Not a poem, its a story)

Genre Micro Fiction

Horror

Lillie Moore

Item: Porcelain doll or mirror

Twist: The threat outside, came in.

Words: 26

I wrote this during my second period. 

The Soul Trapped Inside and Out

Chaos erupts with each stomp, sprinting through the woods, stumbling over tree branches. Piercing screams breaking through the trees. Stomping of feet, shouts coming from afar “Spread out! FIND HER! NOW!” My mind is screaming. Hide. I find myself in a clearing, the trees lean in and surround me. I slip down, my head colliding with a nearby tree. The ancient inscriptions seized my attention. I trace each and every line with my finger, blood slowly dripping down my head, as the hole that leads into the clearing slowly closes. Thus, enclosing me in the vicinity. A small glint caught my eye, under a decomposing log was a little doll, head half off, sun bleached blonde hair to the point of white, hair shining with violet eyes encasing a crimson glint in the pupils. It had a 17th century bonnet. A circle lies underneath, a red star holding her in the middle. As I approach, the sound of whispers fill the passage. Of sacred answers, left locked away, unanswered. Without stepping into the circle, I snatch the doll, it’s head nearly falling off. Over near the edge, I spot a cabin, old, rusty, and beaten down. Moss dangled from the windows, and off the ledge of the roof. The sky, filled with nothing but hate, and the rustle of animals searching frantically for their dinner. The only difference is, they are the hunters, and I… Have become… The prey.

I enter the house, and the planks on the floor are torn, and cracked. The walls rotted, dropping down. As soon as I stepped foot in the door, I sealed it closed. The room is empty, but for the minute amount of belongings. I search around for any possible barricade or weapons to protect myself.  The pounding gets closer. And closer and closer. Till the silence fills the night, I call out “Hello, is anyone here? Helllooooo?” nothing. Just silence, along with the drip surrounding me, leaving an unsettling comfort. I walk further into the house, the nausea is immediate, causing my knees to buckle, and hands clammy. Before my body makes an impact on the floor. An icy, grounding broad palm catches my elbow, “Hey? You ok?” my gaze follows up, straightening out. There's a man, a tall, handsome, neat man. Too neat for the mess of this house. “S-sorry. Who are you?” I allowed his grip to help me from stumbling over. Once I'm up straight I take a clear scan of him. Skin pale, laminate glow around his body.  Violet eyes seize my attention, so mesmerizing and warm. “I'm Theodore. But answer me this please, are you ok?” Eyes filled with concern, and creases of fear on his face. “Yea I’m fine, thank you.“ The voice, like honey, surprised me as soon as it escaped my lips. I swallow hard, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of my heart, but my eyes keep tracking the strange details of the man standing before me. His grip on my elbow is still there, intense, unyielding, and so profoundly, biting cold that it feels less like a hand and more like a block of ice wrapped in tailored wool. "You don't sound fine," he says softly, his fingers relaxing just a fraction against my skin. Even as he speaks, a bizarre detail catches my attention. 

The air in this dusty, neglected house is thick and heavy, yet when he exhales, his breath doesn't stir a single speck of dust dancing in the air between us. The subtle, laminate glow outlining his neat suit doesn't cast a shadow on the wall behind him. He is entirely motionless, devoid of the tiny, subconscious shifts of a living body."You don't sound fine," his fingers relaxing just a fraction against my skin. "People don't usually look like they've seen a ghost and speak like... well. Are you sure?" those mesmerizing violet eyes filled with a concern that feels entirely real, even if everything else about him feels impossibly static. Before I can answer, my knees wobble again. The residual nausea pulled me down. Without a word, Theodore moves, not with a normal stride, but with a fluid, terrifyingly silent grace that seems to bypass the messy floor entirely. His grip on my elbow remains unyielding. It feels less like a person holding me up and more like a heavy, invisible force field effortlessly redirecting my weight. "Come on," the murmur so familiar, his honeyed voice carrying a faint, hollow echo. "Let's get you off your feet. Easy there." He guides me toward the covered armchair in the corner. As he leads me, his grip remains, like an iron vice, yet I notice he doesn't actually seem to lean or use leverage to support my weight. It feels less like he is carrying me and more like a heavy, invisible force field is effortlessly redirecting my body. When I finally drop onto the cushions, the seat groans under my weight, kicking up a cloud of dust. But when Theodore leans over me, my breath hitchens, the dust motes dance right through the strange, laminate glow tracing his silhouette.

 Not a single speck of dirt clings to his immaculate suit. I stare up at him, the words dry in my throat as the sheer impossibility of his presence presses into me. The air in this neglected house is freezing where he touches me, like a block of ice wrapped in tailored wool, and he isn't casting a shadow on the wall behind him. "Who did you say you were again?" stammering,  voice trembling. "And why are you... why is it so cold?  You're not even breathing. Is there something wrong with you? Are you ok?" Theodore’s expression doesn't shift into shock or anger. Instead, a deeply sorrowful look flickers across his mesmerizing violet eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving him looking more intriguing. He slowly steps back, finally releasing my arm. The sudden absence of his touch leaves a patch of skin so numbly cold it aches, a phantom frostbite biting into my flesh. He looks down at his own pale hands, flexing his fingers with an agonizing slowness, as if trying to remember what they are supposed to feel like to possess blood and warmth. "I told you, I'm Theodore," the whisper barely audible.  The honey in his voice sounds thinner now, hollowed out and carrying the faint, tragic echo of a lonely winter wind. He tilts his head, a tear welling in his eye but it doesn't fall. It simply sits there, frozen and perfectly still on his pale cheek. "And you're asking the right questions. It's just... a bit difficult to explain to someone who still has a heartbeat." Terrified, my eyes dart away from his perfect, unmoving face, desperately searching the messy room for anything that makes sense. That's when I noticed an overturned side table tucked into the shadows a few feet away. Shattered glass glints like ice on the floorboards, framing a dusty silver picture frame. I squint through the gloom. Inside the frame is a photograph of a laughing couple standing in front of this very house when it was new and full of life. Standing on the left is the exact same man looming over me now. But in the photo, his skin has a flushed, radiant warmth, and his violet eyes are crinkled with genuine joy. My breath completely hitches as my gaze drops to the bottom of the frame, where a small silver plaque is engraved. Theodore, Mandy, 1976. I look from the plaque back up to him. The faint, laminate glow around his body seems to pulse with a quiet, mournful rhythm, casting no shadow, leaving no footprint in the heavy dust. Fifty years ago. He hasn't changed a single day. Theodore catches me looking at the photograph. A fragile, devastatingly sad smile touches his lips, though his chest remains completely flat and still. "I used to love the spring," the murmur soft, light, and the warmest thing in the room, glancing at the shattered glass. "I haven't felt the sun since the day that picture was taken." House tending to him. The doll lays forgotten once more.

The quiet in the room turns heavy and suffocating as Theodore stares at the shattered picture frame. "I didn't mean to stay,"  voice decreasing to a fragile whisper that portrays like dry leaves scraping across a floor. "It was autumn. 1976. The house was filled with music and laughter, and I was waiting by the front door for her to come home. And I genuinely thought I would have the happiness I so seeked. The warmth my body so wanted. The love that was a part of that world." He takes a single stride toward the window, yet his perfectly polished shoes don't make a single sound against the creaking floorboards. He looks out into the darkness, his silhouette framed by that faint, unearthly glow. "There was a storm," he continues, a deep, hollow sadness tightening around his words. "The roads were slick. Screeching everywhere. I remember hearing the screech of tires from down the hill, and a crash that echoed through these walls. I panicked. I ran for the front door, desperate to reach her. To find her standing. Alive. " Theodore turns his head back toward me, those mesmerizing violet eyes clouding over with a devastating grief. "But I never made it past the threshold. My chest tightened, a sudden, blinding pain that stole my breath before I could even turn the doorknob. My heart just... stopped. I collapsed right there on the rug. Unable to make it." He motions a pale, bloodless finger toward the doorway. "When I woke up, the house was empty. The music was gone. I tried to walk out the front door to find her, but the moment I stepped toward the porch, the world faded to black, and I was thrown right back into this parlor. And I repeated the process, until I finally just gave up." He looks down at his hands, a bitter, fragile smile touching his lips. "She never came back to this house. I was left behind, a secret the walls kept. I've watched the paint peel, the roof leak, and the dust settle for fifty years. Trapped in the exact moment my heart failed, waiting for a knock at a door that will never open again."

The moment the last word leaves his lips, the heavy silence of the house shatters. A sudden, violent drop in temperature hits the room like a physical blow. My breath instantly plumes into thick, white clouds of frost, and the sweat on my palms turns to ice. The single, dust covered bulb dangling from the ceiling begins to violently flicker, casting frantic, erratic shadows that stretch and warp across the peeling wallpaper.

Deep within the walls, wailing emerges from the silence, the pipes begin to groan and rattle, a deep, metallic wailing that sounds like the house itself is crying out. Down the hallway, a heavy wooden door slams shut with a deafening crack, followed by another, and another, cascading through the empty rooms like a row of falling dominoes. The wind outside seems to howl in response, rattling the windowpanes so hard I’m certain the glass is going to burst inward. Through it all, Theodore remains entirely still. The frantic, flickering light passes right through his translucent, laminate glow, making him look like a solid beacon of ice in the middle of a storm. "I'm sorry, I am so sorry" he murmurs, his voice perfectly clear against the chaotic noise. As his grief deepens, the air grows so intensely cold that a delicate layer of frost begins to rapidly spiderweb across the floorboards, creeping outward from his shoes and stopping just inches from where I sit in the armchair. "When I remember... it does. Always does. The house remembers with me. And it's not happy. Not even the littlest. It never was.”

The frantic flickering of the ceiling bulb grows violent, casting jerky, strobe like flashes across the room. The slamming doors suddenly stop with a deafening, synchronized bang, leaving only the sound of my own ragged breathing. But the freezing cold doesn't lift. It intensifies, thick and suffocating. Theodore’s violet eyes snap away from his hands, locking onto the backpack I had dropped by the door when the nausea first hit me. The faint, laminate glow around his body suddenly spikes, turning a sharp, defensive silver. "What is that?" His voice carries a dark, distorted edge that echoes unnaturally through the room. "What did you bring into my house?" Before I can answer, the zipper of my backpack drags itself open with a slow, sickening squeal. From inside the dark canvas, a small, pale face emerges. It is the antique porcelain doll I snatched from under that decomposing log, the one trapped inside the red star circle where the ancient inscriptions whispered sacred, locked, away answers. Its head, already nearly falling off when I took it, twists with a horrific, ceramic grinding sound, turning a full 180 degrees to look directly at Theodore. The sun bleached blonde hair, white as bone, sways as the doll’s painted lips crack open, releasing a wet, raspy wheeze that mimics a dying breath. Outside, the howling wind abruptly dies. The absolute silence that follows is far worse. From the front porch, the heavy, deliberate thud of footsteps begins to echo. Someone or something is walking up to the house. The wood groans under an impossible weight. "She tracked it," Theodore whispers, his face contorting into pure, unadulterated terror. The fragile, sad ghost is gone; he looks utterly helpless. "The thing from the crash. It's been waiting at the edge of the property for fifty years. It couldn't get in... until you broke that circle and brought its vessel past the threshold." The front door, thick and bolted, begins to shudder. Heavy, violent blows rain down against the wood from the outside, threatening to splinter it to pieces. At the exact same moment, the porcelain doll on the floor snaps its eyes up to me. The crimson glint deep within its violet pupils flares to life, burning like hot coals. It opens its mouth wider, and the honeyed, beautiful voice of Theodore flawless and exact escapes the doll's rigid lips from beneath its 17th century bonnet.

"Thank you for letting us in."

The front door explodes inward, shattering off its hinges, and a towering, pitch black shadow floods into the hallway The towering shadow hovers in the hallway, its oppressive weight pinning me to the dust covered armchair, but my eyes are locked on Theodore and the doll. Theodore isn't just terrified he is actively unraveling. The laminate glow around his body begins to fracture, peeling away from his silhouette like burning paper. Every time the doll's head twitches on its broken neck, Theodore’s own head jerks in violent, agonizing synchronization. "Theodore..." I choke out, the freezing air burning my throat. "What is that thing?" The doll’s crimson glinted pupils roll back, fixing on Theodore. From beneath its 17th century bonnet, the honeyed voice speaks again, but this time, Theodore’s own lips move in perfect unison, though no air escapes his chest. "Did you really think your heart just failed, Theodore?" the dual voice echoes, hollow and mocking. Theodore lets out a silent, weeping gasp. As the shadow from the hallway edges closer, a horrifying transformation bleeds across his pale skin. The crisp, immaculate suit he wore begins to rot and tear, revealing a massive, splintered cavity right over his chest shattered inward, exactly like the windshield of a 1976 car crash. "I... I wasn't waiting for her," Theodore whispers, his real voice finally splitting from the doll's, cracking with absolute despair. "I was with her. The storm. The screeching tires. I didn't die in this parlor. I was in it all." The porcelain doll giggles, a sharp, clinking sound. "You died on the asphalt, pinned under the steering column. And she didn't want to lose you. But what else could have been done?"  The truth slams into the room harder than the wind outside. The ancient inscriptions by the tree, the red star circle holding the doll captive, wasn't a prison for an evil spirit. It was a tether. Fifty years ago, his grieving partner had used 17th century occult rituals to pull Theodore’s soul from the wreckage of the crash, binding his spirit to the house using the porcelain doll as an anchor. The crimson glint in the doll's violet eyes is the drop of blood she used to seal the contract. But the ritual demanded a price. To keep Theodore safe inside, the entity that claimed his life in the crash had to be locked outside, forced to pace the perimeter of the property for half a century. "By taking the doll from the circle," Theodore cries out, his form becoming increasingly translucent as the porcelain doll bleeds his silver glow into itself, "You didn't just bring the anchor inside... you broke the barrier." The pitch black shadow reaches the parlor doorway, stretching out long, smoky tendrils. The doll’s head completely snaps off its neck, rolling across the floorboards until it hits my boot. Up close, the crimson glint fills the entire pupil. The shadow looms over us, and the broken doll's head grins. "Fifty years late. Times up" the voice whispers from the floor, "but the debt is finally being collected. Once and for all" Theodore, twitching a little as his mouth forms words, “Save yourself hun. This is not for the wea-” the sound escapes while his body vanishes. Snatched into the dark of the house, scraping against the walls, whispers embracing the silence. A sudden, unnatural rush of frigid air slams into my chest, throwing me backward until my spine cracks against the stone wall. I gasp, the breath stolen from my lungs, but my eyes are locked ahead. Where his body had lain only moments before, the dark stone began to fracture. Scorching crimson inscriptions bleed into existence, carving themselves into the rock. They seize my attention, burning so bright they leave a glare in my vision. Hypnotized, I slowly extend my trembling hand, my fingertips aching to trace the glowing letters as they violently etch themselves into the world. Then, I spotted it. A heavy leather book, tossed carelessly into the shadows. Its worn cover reads: “The Ritual for the Dominions. Open as thou shall wish.” Desperation floods my veins. I throw my entire weight forward, lunging across the floor toward the binding. My hand grazed the leather. The last thing I touch before it consumes me.

A sudden force knots into my hair, pulling me backward and away from the prize with a crunch. The book slips from my reach, stumbling to the side, as the surroundings plunge into a pitchblack abyss. My ears filled with a ringing.  The world vanishes, leaving nothing but complete, suffocating darkness save for the crimson inscriptions. They flare to life, blindingly bright against the void. And then, a series of voices echoes directly from the dark, cold and impossibly close

                                “Thank you. We are finally free. Finally home.”

                                                         “Home at last”

Word count:3215