A Tour of Abernathy Mansion (Part 2) [CW: Suicide, Self Harm]

(If you haven't read the first part here is the link: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/comments/1py04sn/a_tour_of_abernathy_mansion_part_1_cw_suicide/ )

The smoke in the air spread to my lungs like tar dripped down my throat, I didn’t bother to take shallow breaths. Eventually the brick around me opened up and I slowly transitioned onto another wooden floor. I stood. I was in a new hallway. It stretched far beyond my vision, flames wreathe the walls in place of ornament. The wall's original color is distorted, turned into a shifting array of red, orange, and black. It reminded me of flowing lava. That, I imagine, was a fine reference for hell. There was no heat. The first thing that came to mind once I stood was to throw my arm into the burning pile next to me, then my whole body. I did so on reflex. As my arm slammed into the flames, what greeted me was not the sharp burning I was expecting but a sheer cold. In sheer shock I pulled my arm out from the anomalous inferno.

The surprise had a great effect of waking up my dazed mind, though the dread of my situation now fully dawned on me again. In all honesty, while I wouldn’t call myself suicidal in my daily life, I did consider trying to kill myself again. I didn’t. I can’t say it was for any hopes of remaining alive, but because of the growing curiosity inside me. I could feel it, deep in my bones, that I was going to die. The place was littered with death, an effect that was already consuming me. I hadn’t eaten in who knows how long and I could certainly feel it, but I wasn’t dead. I wanted to learn as much as I could before I joined the rest of the ghouls of the Abernathy Mansion. 

I walked uncertainly into the hall at first, building up my confidence and my speed. There was no door, nor window. Only the hallway, but despite that my nerves are tightly wound. Something watched me, followed my movements slowly and waited for the moment to strike me. It was different from the Amalgamation, there is a cruel enjoyment as it stalks. The moment I remembered the Amalgamation I remembered something else of importance.

The paper booklet felt heavy, heavier than before at least. It had a new page. The second thing on the table of contents is legible, it read “the Ferverant.” I found the page. 

“Little miss Mary May was found dead in the fire, along with all the other civilians. What no one knew was she was dead before the fire started. Donald Lessner was a boy she had always fancied and the man felt the same, but when the civil war started Don felt called to the confederacy by his family in the south. The night of the raid Don found Mary to usher her out, only to find she wouldn’t stand to be with a slaver. Mary May drew her last breath not a moment later, though in the end she got the last laugh. Mary May doesn’t do well with dirty sinners, and she indeed will be the first one to cast a stone.”

There was movement in the corner of my eye, a flicker in the flame stood out from the rest. I kept walking. 

My shoulders were tense, pushing in and knotting together uncomfortably. A judge of my sins didn’t bode well for me, I may not be evil but I have my fair share. I thought through all I could remember guessing which ones would be used against me, but I know what will be the choice. In confirmation I heard the pained screams of my mother echo in the hall. Despite myself I went after them. 

There was a deeper flame, scaling the wall and billowing out blocking the hallway. Dancing in those flames was her face, afraid and calling my name. It was not perfect, her voice too shrill, her eyes not wide enough, but the knife still landed deep in my heart. The flames consumed her, though she is made of them. The vile imp exaggerated her final moments, flailing arms and mocking screams. It took pleasure in the pain I bleed. I felt a slow building rage in me, matched only by my anguish, at the defilement of her end. As the rage boiled over I realized too late that it was actually bile making its way out my throat, and I covered the ground and my shoes before I could react. It takes me a moment to steady myself, and by the time I was free from my need to vomit the figure in the flames was gone. The image of her death stayed with me.

The caricature and her real one, although I’m afraid my parents' death had never really left me. Maybe there was some comfort, or safety, in knowing. Knowing there was nothing a child could do, as the flames tore apart his mother.

Tears fell freely and I continued to walk.

The flames flickered, taunting me to look. To feel. I ignored them. My mothers screams filled the hall continuously, but I cared too much for the woman she was to dignify another look. Eventually her screams died out, though they still echo in my head. Instead another voice replaces her; deep and strained but steady. My father’s. It followed my memories precisely, first shouting to go to my mother before hearing her screams. Not a second wasted he shouts for me to leave the house, like then I find myself bolted to the ground. 

There was a mercy in not seeing his death. In that way I took it for granted, because despite knowing it was in my best interest to walk away a desire grew in me. A hunger to know what happened to him, to carry what I could of him with me before I die. Even if it was a vile mocking of his death, made to grate my soul. I turned

He was shrinking by the second, the fat slowly dissolving away. He flailed and weeped like a child. I don’t look away. He screamed my name frantically. Slowly his bones show, as his muscle melted like wax under the intense fire. An eye joined the arrangement of liquid on the ground, but just before the other one went he looked at me. Directly at me, a hint of recognition in his eyes. He collapses. I lived. 

I spend the next 30 minutes dry hacking, nothing left in my stomach to grace the ground.

I continued walking. I felt like a skeleton myself, never in my life had I been so empty. My father continued to beckon me, my mother screeched in pain. I didn’t stop to watch, if I did I wouldn’t be able to continue walking. My feet were sore, my shoes were worn through. I didn’t bother to take them off, not worth stopping.

The only thing that kept my feet moving was knowing that my dad, at one point at least, didn’t want me to die. The thing in the fire, *Mary May*, pushed harder for my attention. My father screamed obscenities, calling for me to come to him. My mother called for help desperately. They slowly became nothing like the parents I knew. My gentle father threatened me, promising that I wouldn’t be able to walk when he was done. My sweet mother spitted vitriol at me, branding me a defect freak that deserves the life I have. The words sting though she screamed any mean thing she could think of, not many did I think applied. 

My legs hurt, my throat burned, my lungs strained, my stomach started eating itself. Eventually, despite how hard I tried to keep walking, I was on the floor without realizing when I fell down. Or passed out, I couldn’t tell the difference. 

The fire around me grew, warped into a new disgusting figure. I buried my head into the wood and shut my eyes tight, though the words still filled my ears. I stayed like that for a long time, listening to her ramblings in the voice of my mother. 

Eventually the words quieted down, her voice became soft. Right next to my ears she whispered sweetly, reminding me of those nights when I was told stories before bed. I would have drifted off in my sleep deprived state, but despite her tone all that was said was poison. It hurt worse than before, instead of generic insults it became specific. Admonishments for every failure from my childhood, then every failure in my adulthood. 

Some of them were nothing but disappointed comments, not taking out the trash or doing laundry. Others sounded like genuine concern, about where my life has gone. My career choice, my relationships, my drug use. My mother hasn’t been in my life for over two decades but she knew every detail. I despised this thing but its words ring true. 

The worst part by far is the relief that I get to hear her again, even if it is something mimicking her. That I get to hear *her* and not the horrific parody that was squealing earlier. 

Concern in her voice turned malicious, her volume soared. Instead of a parent disciplining their child for their mistakes it became a harassment, a loud declaration of my mom’s profound hatred for me. 

I was comatose on the floor, taking whatever beating this thing is willing to give. Until it touched me and, at the frigid thing’s touch, I threw myself to the side. Rolling onto my other side I stared at the ceiling for a moment not even realizing what had happened. I had been there so long but had never gotten used to the cold. I never was one for winter.

I found it standing over me, its eyes a flurry of emotion. Disappointment, fear, embarrassment. Anger. It made me think that it was the real thing for a moment, but there was something more. A delight that made it clear it wasn’t her, that broke me from the illusion it could be her at least. Its body made of flames pushed down on me quickly, weighing much more than I would have thought. The heat drained from me quickly. It bore down on me, wrapping its hand around my throat and pushed down hard. It wasn’t looking at me at this moment as it choked me, it’s eyes were somewhere else. Remembering, or maybe imagining, killing someone else. 

I could feel ice form on my throat. 

My limbs grew weak, my death immediately approaching. I found the words I wished I could say to her, although I knew she would never hear it.

“Sorry.” the words croaked out of my freezing throat, barely audible. It then came like a torrent. A continuous wave of apologies left my left my lips, little things for all the various problems I caused. For all the things I didn’t get to do. For leaving her to burn while I ran.

The apologies grew quieter as my strength faded but Mary heard eventually. Rage filled her as she slammed me into the floor, my head bouncing against the wood. For every sorry I give she hurls me again, harder and harder. She didn’t accept it seemed. I slowly drifted off as I felt the floor boards beneath me give way. I passed out as I started falling.