The Mindful Migraine

Today’s short story gets a bit graphic (even a bit gory). I write these Migraine Gothic stories as a way of wrestling with the horror of head pain… rest assured, however, it’s pure fiction… but if your nervous system is feeling fragile, save yourself some stress and give it a miss.

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The Castle had recently been heritage listed, which was the local council’s way of preventing any further changes to a house that was over 150 years old. Before it had been rescued, or hindered, by Australian rules and regulations (depending on who you ask), each of The Castle’s previous eccentric owners had made alterations and additions to the whaling captain’s original stone home, creating a rambling hodge-podge of a seaside edifice.

There was a giant wrought iron gate, and a long drive lined with cypress trees for the first third, mulberries in the middle, and crepe myrtles closest to the house. The botanical conga line arrived at a circular driveway and a rectangular rose trellis that covered the enormous double doors to the front hall and it’s sweeping internal staircase. The house also boasted several terracotta-dragon-topped chimneys upon the original two-story roof, plus some abstract shapes that sprouted, mushroom-like from the three-story rear addition. There was a widow’s walk that ran around the southern-most corner and provided glimpses over the trees towards the east coast, and of course, there was a cylindrical tower with a crenelated top, visible from sea, which gave The Castle its name.

Blake sighed as he looked out of one of the several arrow-slit windows that ran around the tower and created a barcode of light and shade across the stone floor. He wondered for the umpteenth time as he sipped his bourbon and squinted through the narrow window, why-oh-why hadn’t the designer installed something wider to take advantage of the sea views? Then again, he realized, not much about The Castle’s design made sense… which was exactly why he liked it.

When he was in his early 20s, Blake had watched a documentary about Sarah Winchester’s Mystery House in San Jose. It had been built over several decades in the late 1800s and early 1900s, funded by her staggering weapon-generated wealth. Changing her mind several times along the way, Sarah’s blood-money-home became a sprawling mansion that included doors that opened into thin air, rooms without windows, and stairs that ended against blank walls.

Not long after seeing the documentary, Blake persuaded his girlfriend of the time, Lucia, to change her overseas travel plans to include California. He wanted the two of them to visit the building considered by many to be one of the most haunted houses in the United States. Perfectly predisposed to hear whispers, feel chilly temperature plunges and see spectral images, they were both bitterly disappointed to sense nothing but a warm draft that rustled a few curtain fringes while they listened to the pervasive sound of tourists shouting ‘boo’ at each other.

Lucia, an accounting student, had been unmoved by the house’s mysteries but had enjoyed the statistics the house had to offer. She read her brochure as she walked, listing off the number of rooms and doors and stairs. “10,000 windows,” she had read and whistled with respect. Blake, on the other hand, had been indifferent to the numbers, and was enamored by the anarchy of the house. He made up his mind as they walked back to the carpark in the last light of day, that house-hunting absurd architecture would be his lifelong mission.

Over the years that followed, he had dated a designer named Kiara, befriended Jet the librarian who specialized in the tomes of historical houses, seduced Ahma, an expert in Feng Shui, and had been briefly engaged to Melanie Mort, a wealthy socialite whose own, crazy, home had intrigued Blake for a few months. All of his relationships, to be honest, had been in the name of research.

Until Lilith the bartender. Blake had genuinely fallen in love with her at first sight. He had arrived at her bar (his third for the evening) and mistook her for Lucia. She had the same body shape which she carried the same way, and her hair was an unruly dark bob worn exactly how Lucia had worn her hair. Even her laugh was uncannily familiar. Whilst Lilith had nothing useful to teach Blake about his favorite topic, she was able to keep his liquor-cabinet stocked, and it felt good to be so close to Lucia again after all these years.

As he headed out of The Castle’s tower, walking towards the widow’s walk to watch the sun set, Blake remembered his time in California with Lucia and his heart swelled and ached. He recognized that yet again he had confused his love and affection for a dead person, with the pull of old architecture to end up here, treading these faded floors, alone. Yet again, he thought as he smirked, he had wasted a large sum of time and money on nothing.

At least The Castle hadn’t been for sale, he thought, or he might have gone all in and bankrupted himself. As it stood, he was only out of pocket for 6 month’s rent, and the payoff he had received from Mr Mort to make himself scarce would last a while longer yet.

Blake did a quick mental scroll through the faces of his past and imagined each of them here, in this dank corridor that smelt of sea-salt and cat p!ss. Kiara would have spent too long testing the novelty of the old pull-string light switches, as was her fetish. Jet would have loved everything about the place and happily offered to move in and split the rent (an arrangement which would have come with terms that Blake was not interested in meeting). Ahma would undoubtedly have been shocked into confused silence as she tried to draw mental lines between the bathroom and the ocean via the front door and lamented all his fortunes flowing away. Melanie would have been greatly amused by his crazy spontaneity, as only the rich can be. Lucia would have laughed until she cried and drawn him into a bear hug, praising his passion for seeking out life’s oddities. Whilst Lilith… well, she would probably have said nothing and just spat in Blake’s bourbon.

“Fair”, he said into the evening air as he stepped onto the weathered floorboards of the widow’s walk. Blake had been a jerk to her and deserved to be dumped. It was on him that he had also been stupid enough to leave years’ worths of diaries and journal notes for his proposed book about bizarre buildings where she could find them. Not easily mind you, Lilith had to put in a lot of effort to dig them out of their hidey hole in the tower, but still… find them she did… while he was busy sleeping off another drunken bender.

He lifted his drink to the watery horizon and cursed The Castle, as he did every night, for being located on the wrong side of the country. He turned so that he could see the sun slip below the trees on the hill’s crest and leaned back against the ornate metal scrolls of the handrail of the widow’s walk. Blake knew that he could see the sun rise over the ocean any morning he liked, but he also knew that required him to be up early and that would never happen.

Just as he was shifting his weight from one foot to rest on the other, there was a sharp >>CRACK!<< and a large part of the handrail broke free of its timber housing. In a blur of impulses, Blake threw his drink into the rockery that ringed the terrace below, pivoted his body, and grabbed hold of the metal upright that was bent but still clinging to the deck. It was a decent save, but wood-boring insects had weakened the timber and momentum carried Blake over the edge. He dangled in space as the post he was holding groaned under his weight.

It was true what they say about your life flashing before your eyes at the end, and for Blake the images that sped past were not glorious. There were the cruel things he had said to Lilith when she reminded him she was not Lucia. There were the crueler things Lilith had said to him about the poor quality of the writing in his draft book. Reminders of his personal poverty from Melanie Mort and her father. The hurt on Kiara, Ahma and Jet’s faces when they realized, one after the other, that they were being used for information. And lastly, as his fingers began to slip and metal began to tear, the look on Lucia’s face as the light went out of her eyes.

As he fell from the third story balcony, somersaulting towards the pavement below, Blake swore to himself and Lucia and the Universe, that her death in San Jose had been an accident. They had left the Winchester House late… he was hungry… used to driving on the other side of the road… it was confusing… moving into the glare of the setting sun… his mind… elsewhere…

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Much later, when the landlord arrived to chastise Blake about his overdue rent, he stood for a long time on the terrace staring. Blake’s head had leaked onto the pavers in a way that formed a shape which reminded the landlord of a crown. Eventually, the landlord returned his attention to his phone and called his lawyer.

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Sorry if that got a bit dark!

Take care taking care people!

Linda x

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PS – here’s an AI rendition of what my computer thought The Castle might look like, by cutting and pasting paragraph 2 into the prompt (quietly adoring the terracotta dragons and the botanical conga line up the driveway!!):