Letters from the Dead

The deserted lone shack stands forlornly amid a dense jungle of old, dry and gnarled mophane trees.  A thick, almost physical silence hangs in the air. High shrieks of sparrows throw an occasional ostinato of dissonant notes across the air. A trifle shudder creeps through my flesh.  Suddenly the environment feels and looks spooky.  The wooden shack and the gloomy trees are all weather-beaten, like relics from an old time in history. It’s been many, many years since I’ve last come here. It doesn’t look like my place anymore. It doesn’t look like what used to be my resort.

I step towards the structure, my boots snapping brittle twigs.  I jump at the somewhat amplified sound of keys jingling as I scoop them from my pocket.  They echo like graveyard chimes. Almost cautiously, I turn the key, hearing the rusted mechanism unlatching. The door squeals open. A network of cobwebs criss-crosses the interior of the shack, glimmering from the dingy light that squeezes in through the tiny window at the back. A spine-chilling chorus of squeaking sounds is followed quickly by a flutter of wings flapping. I duck as a swarm of bats scurry over my head and out through the door into the woods.  My heart races. The back of my hand wipes perspiration off my brow. Steady yourself, man! A voice whips through my mind. The hell are you afraid of? This is your house.

I walk through the cobwebs into my house, wooden floor creaking. There’s a smell of mildew and mould and bat droppings. I look around. The walls are papered with copies of poems and songs I wrote years ago, on which many generations of flies have interpolated new notes. My first acoustic guitar still hangs at the corner, right where I had left it, but now caged in spider webs, strings dangling. The guitar is solemn. I walk towards the desk and around it to the rocking chair I had once upon a time cherished. Slowly and cautiously I wedge myself into the chair, suspecting it might break under my weight. It doesn’t. And I’m glad. The notepads and the pencils are still there on the desk – a sign that no one had ever stepped in here since my last visit; that no one had tampered with my beautiful writing resort. How come they didn’t give it away after my burial? They gave away everything. Oh yes, I remember. It’s because of the will. I stated it in my will. I open one of the notepads. The once clean-white papers have turned rusty brown. I pick the pencil and start inditing verses. Letters from the dead.  Will they ever believe?  The living. Will they ever believe my story?

Extract from my short story ‘Letters from the Dead’.