Frozen Chaos

Frozen chaos. It was the only way the detective could describe the scene before him. Turned chairs, torn wallpaper, and shattered pieces of stone and ceramic scattered across the floor like an intricate jigsaw puzzle painted the picture but remained as silent as the body lying amongst them. The detective slowly stepped through the room, taking deep care to avoid disturbing any part of the grim scene, and let his eyes scan methodically over every corner. Books strewn about, a fire poker, papers with bizarre drawings scrawled across them in hard pressed pencil, a small decorative pill box next to an overturned glass of wine pooling its dark red contents around a cracked tablet; these were just a portion of the tools the detective had to work with. As he approached the body lying face down on the white carpet with a halo of blood staining the fibers around it, the detective crouched to get a better look at the man whose poor fate marked the centerpiece of this macabre scene.

The body’s face was torn and bloody with gaping trenches etched across the length of his cheeks and forehead. One slash crossed over a now ruined eye like a scarlet horror. The man’s arm reached far over his head, toward what the detective could not surmise. As the detective took a deep breath to calm his nerves from the unspeakable sight before him, his silence was shattered with a startling sound, coming from the outstretched hand.

BEE-BEE-BEEP, BEE-BEE-BEEP

The detective glanced at the alarm watch strapped to the cold wrist of the corpse, unceremoniously blaring in digital staccato. He drew a pen from his pocket and lanced at the button on the side of the watch to stop the alarm before pulling out a pad and taking note of the time. A gust of icy wind flew through the broken window in the dining room, adding to the already chilling atmosphere. The detective looked around the room, still processing what could possibly have been the events of the evening. He pursed his lips in thought as he tapped the pen on his pad.

A young investigator approached the detective with a small piece of paper, on it was a haunting sketch. The image depicted what appeared to be a black cloaked figure, shrouded in shadow, with the only real detail being the figure’s ghostly face. Round and pale white, the face was only adorned with inhumanly wide eyes and a sharp crease where a nose and mouth should be. There was a solid feeling of dread and doom embedded in the portrait, as if some magical aura was imparted in the artist's frantic composition.

The detective stared deeply at the drawing, attempting to analyze any information about the victim’s mindset at the time of making the sketch. Another draft of wind swirled through the room, causing the corners of the sketch to flutter in a hypnotic dance. He glanced back at the body and studied the image of the unexplained carnage. What possible explanation could there be to this bizarre scene? He thought. He turned back to the dread image in his hand to continue to seek his answers.

**************************

Allan had been working on his novel for months, with little success. The summer had provided little inspiration and the winter was only proving to inspire him towards yet another bottle of wine. He had locked himself up in his country house, far from the distractions of the city and deep in the womb of isolation. The quiet proved to be less than quiet as the sounds of birds and far off coyotes keening in the distance seemed all the louder just to spite his attempts at calm.

He stared at the screen of his tablet, attempting to will the words of his latest thriller to manifest while being mocked by the blinking of the cursor. He was not starving for inspiration, as the events of the last year - pandemic, natural disaster, social violence in even the most peaceful of places - had been fuel enough for a thousand horrors. Even he had to admit that his growing agoraphobia served as a large part of his retreat from the city. He took a cool sip of his wine and sighed, attempting to clear his mind as best as he could.

SNAP!

The sound of the mouse trap ripped Allen away from his meditation and sent his mind racing through a myriad of thoughts. His heart began to pound, causing his vision to grow sharp and distorted. He pressed a hand to his chest and worked to bring his heart rate down with deep, squared breaths. As his thoughts began to slow and focus, his heartbeat found a steady rhythm. He shook his head with an embarrassed chuckle and sunk into his chair.

Taking another sip of wine, he pulled a blank piece of paper closer to him. He had established a habit of drawing out scenes and characters he intended for his stories in an attempt to better identify the scenes he was writing. Sometimes these pictures were of dreams he had, or just rough sketches of settings he felt fit perfectly for his goal. Lately the sketches themselves had become another source of frustration: images that would begin to form before fading into formless blobs of graphite. This sketch was no different. Allen slammed his fist on the table in exasperation and pushed away from his seat.

BEE-BEE-BEEP, BEE-BEE-BEEP

He passively dismissed the alarm on his watch and walked over to the fireplace. He felt that a warm fire could be just the inspiration he needed. He had always found creative beauty in the dancing embers of the fire. He placed a fire starter and some logs in the fire stand and worked a long match underneath, letting the golden flame lick at the fuel above. It didn’t take long before the fire took hold and filled the den with a comforting glow.

Allen began to turn off the lights to take full advantage of the firelight. As the light in the dining room snapped off, Allen shrieked in startelled horror as a pale round face stared back at him from the other side of the window. His heart began to pound once more. He could feel his breath escalate in tempo as his head became cloudy. He clutched his chest again, trying to focus on his breathing to bring his head back down to Earth. He closed his eyes tightly before taking another look out of the window.

An owl sat on the tree just outside his window. The beautifully eerie barn owl cocked its head to one side and blinked before turning its attention to the snowy ground. Allen squinted his eyes, trying to make sense of the image before him. Breathing deeply to even his heart rate, he moved closer to the window, marveling at the majestic creature. He smiled, chiding himself for being so jumpy. Feeling inspired, he snatched up a piece of paper and scrawled out a haunting image of an owl-faced creature in a dark robe before turning back to the fire for comfort.

Staring into the flames brought an enveloping mesmerism over him. Dancing lights and images both calmed his mind and excited his creativity. He gave into the crashing waves of ideas and visions, begging for them to break the writer’s block that had consumed him for half a year. It didn’t take long for sleep to pull him deep into his high backed chair.

The images spun and undulated in shades of gold and red, maintaining a sensuous, writhing bolero that flashed hints of inspiration in time with the crackling of the fire. As the images slowed, the fiery crimson gave way to cold grays and bone whites. A sudden sense of gripping dread and fear filled Allen’s dream, as a dark cloaked figure began to rise and consume the full field of vision. At its height, the creature spun and glared at Allen with deep obsidian eyes set in the creature’s snowy white face.

Allen’s screams woke him from his night terror, his heart ramming against his chest. The icy feeling of doom persisted, making the dark living room feel like the dank den of a deadly predator. His eyes widened as far as they could to allow as much light as possible. He felt like a field mouse attempting to scurry from some unseen executioner.

Allen jumped up from his chair and fumbled for the fire poker, spinning to find what could be filling him with such fear. He scanned the room, looking for his harasser, yet nothing came to his eye. A glint of light came from the dining table causing Allen to lunge instinctually with the poker outstretched. A hard cracking sound preceded the sound of his tablet and wineglass collapsing on the tabletop. He shook his head, absurdly confused. He squinted his eyes to focus on the recipient of his attack and made out the spider web lines of the cracked tablet screen and the pooling wine.

Allen’s fear began to evolve into frustrated rage. His imagination and creativity had eluded him so spitefully for the whole year only to manifest to frighten and embarrass him. He yelled in rage and pain, his lungs expanding and contracting so quickly that the world around him became an electric haze. He swung the poker in a haphazard arch, shattering a stoneware vase of white lilies, toppling a decorative bowl of river rocks, and embedding the poker in the drywall before tearing it loose and letting it fall to the ground.

BEE-BEE-BEEP, BEE-BEE-BEEP

Allen stared at the carnage wrought by his tantrum. He let the alarm continue to blare, giving his breathing a point of reference to calm himself. Out of his peripheral, he could see the cloaked, owl faced demon from his nightmare in every shadow and corner. The feeling of dread lingered but stood regulated by his growing feeling of shame and foolishness. He shuffled over to the dining table and opened his pill box, plucking out a small, white oblong pill. He stopped the alarm and turned toward the kitchen for some water.

The sudden silence was met with the sound of scratching that set Allen’s hair on edge, reigniting the overwhelming feeling of fear that had gripped him a moment earlier. He stopped and gave his ears a moment to adjust before turning his attention to the front door. His heart began to increase its speed once more, cutting off any efficiency of his breathing in an instant. Ignoring the sharp ceramic shards and other detritus splayed on the ground, he slowly crossed the space between him and the door.

Allen’s dread grew deep as he grew closer to the frosted window and saw the face of his ghostly stalker. His hands grew sweaty and weak, releasing the contents in his palm onto the floor below. His throat constricted and he began to choke on his own spittle. He extended a shaking hand toward the door handle, terrified but set in meeting what fate waited for him on the other side. Turning the handle slow, he managed one deep breath, locking the moment in time as he swung the door open.

The frozen scene erupted into chaos. A rush of cold darkness sacked Allen, knocking him back into the low bookshelf near the door. He had no time to react before a muzzle of flapping wings and sharp talons pierced and slashed his face. The hot lines of scarlet blood nearly blinded him as he stumbled and staggered, seeking any freedom from this horror. His foot was pierced by a shard of ceramic, causing him to expel a gurgling scream before staggering forward, toppling his chair in a vain attempt at catching his fall, and collapsing to the ground.

The owl fluttered and screeched, frantically searching for an escape. Allen’s heart began to pound so hard he could hear the beating reverberating throughout the house and against the windows. Deathly cold air filled the house as a gale of wind whipped in through the door, giving the horrific moment a feeling of finality. A limb from the tree outside of the kitchen window snapped and shattered the glass pane with a piercing crack.

Allen blinked away the blood covering the one eye that could still see and noticed his pill embedded in the fibers of his rug. He was unable to catch any breath and a cold tight pain clutched his chest and arm. He reached his hand as far as he could, seeking the pill with his fingertips to no avail. His good eye rolled around in his head seeking any relief as darkness closed in around him. Finally, his eyes caught the image of the Owl faced reaper, looming over him. As his gaze locked deeply into the void like orbs of the owl’s face, Allen released his breath in an acceptance of his fate. The darkness finished pooling over his vision as he rested his bloodied face into the carpet and sputtered out his last breath.

Silence fell over the wintery scene. As Allen’s body sank and ceased all movement, the owl fluttered out of the shattered window and into the night. The stillness in the room proved a mockery of the insanity that had exploded the moment before. Allen’s frozen tomb remained undisturbed until the following day. Among the quiet sun of morning, the night’s horrors stood unmoving; frozen chaos.