Volatile Spirit

The air feels cool as the day slowly enters into the hours of dusk. The sun dipping down and preparing to rest, it’s last few bright rays land at a humble church. It looks hand-built, made with careful and determined hands as they laid the foundations, the brickwork and more. It didn’t appear to be grand in size or lavishly designed, but a small house of prayer with a graveyard. However neither is it a bland spot, but rich and vibrant in colour, with a beautiful garden of paradise and the walls painted with passionate illustrations.

A young man tends to the holy grounds, caring for the earth that the dead are buried under. He’s a tall gaunt figure, with a deep bronze skin tone, his shaggy hair black as smoke as it wisps and curls, covering his eyes. Dressed in a strange pristine suit just as colourful as the church he tends to.

He cares for the garden, makes sure on the conditions of the graves and that nothing is entering disrepair. The warm summer breeze blow by him, as the young man waters and nurtures the garden.

He finishes, looking around pleased by his handiwork as the flowers look beautiful. He smiles, but the expression shifts to that of concern. A strong wind blasts him by, causing the garden to rustle. Tiny little voices just under the petals and laying in the shadows of the markers, chitter of an omen.

“Rage, so furious, so passionate and so fiery is this rage,” calls out the voices in the brightest patch of flowers.

“Sorrow, so hopeless, so numb and so suffocating is this sorrow,” calls out the voices hiding in the silhouettes of the gravestones.

“So much more is mixed in! Misery, stress, anxiety and disappointment, circle around this gloom. A terrible wraith must be cleansed before it harms the living,” calls out these voices in unison

“Great cleric of our graves! Please, rescue this star-crossed spirit, it needs your help as it screams and roars in dreadful anguish!” plead the voices towards this colourfully suited man.

He hushes them gently, like a parent helping ease the worrisome rambling of a crying child. He gives a gentle smile, kneels to one knee and speaks up to these distraught voices.

“Little spirits, ease down! I will find the source of your worries and a solution to this grave matter. I shall see to this poor soul be given peace. From their woes and ease them away from doing harm. They will be given rest from what plagues them,” reverently replies the colourful man, as he assures them, that this grim conundrum will be fixed.

His voice and promise for these terrified voices allow them to breathe with a sigh of relief. His voice sweet, melodic, slow and gentle like a spoon of honey on a sore and aching throat. His message gave them ease, they were frightened still but did not panic.

“Thank you oh vibrant protector! We bless you with good luck in your mission to heal this tortured spirit. Let the fates be ever so kind to you, guardian of this church,” the voices speak all together once more in a unified tone of little chatters talking at once.

Then a spindly shadowy arm stretches from the shade of a grave marker. The eerie hand picks a flower from the garden and presents it to the carer of the church. The flower is a dazzling golden orange and soft Marigold, the colourful gentleman gently takes it from the dark spectral hand. He cups the petals in his hands and gently places the flower to his breast pocket.

He bows his head in thanks, stands and begins to prepare for his mission. He enters into the church where on a stand he picks up a beautiful skull helmet. The helmet is just as weirdly colourful as the church and himself. Painted in a deep violet purple, with red and white designs etched in a Calavera style. With this mask he places an extravagant crown of flowers on top of it, an arrangement of flowers with pinks, blues, yellows and reds. The scents aromatic and pleasant. He places the mask over his face, now ready to stand against this ominous wickedness.

He looks to the shrines of his church, each decorated and worshipping a patron saint all decorated with flowers from the garden, lit candles, bibles and rosaries. He goes to the altar, kneels and pulls out a strange beaded rosary to pray. He plays with the beads, each moulded as little skulls as he thumbs through them, muttering a prayer to the saints around him.

As he prays the mouthpiece of his mask opens up, as a multicoloured smoke starts to leak out. The smoke begins to slowly envelop the room like a fog, the colours shifting from bright sky blue to sunset oranges. The lights of the candles look like stars in this fog as if praying in a galactic nebula.

He clutches his rosary tight in his hands in prayer and looks up to a detailed hand-painted mural. The guardian looks up and sees a skeleton dressed in gorgeous vibrant robes with their hands in prayer and wrapped by its own rosary. The hollow eyes light up and the picture opens its mouth to speak.

“Tonight go onward into the masses of the living. Find this omen through the young partying away or tirelessly working. Then through the old who watch time go by or find ways to spend their time well. For this is the life of the living, of those who can't fathom to see the end, but the dead continue on. These wraiths, ghosts and phantasms, go on wandering. Whether be as a civil spirit, a ghostly trickster or a violent spectre. They are the dark mirrors to the ordinary passer-by, intense reflections of the living and mundane. What is felt in the world of the living is multiplied tenfold to this strange spectral realm. Release these dark passions from this tormented soul and ease them to rest, guardian. For beware, this is not simply a fight of the living against the dead. Nor the light versus the darkness. For your duty is the mere maintenance of a peaceful cycle of life and death. That neither a terrible numbness nor horrifying chaos envelops life and the afterlife itself. Go forth and use your gifts to heal and protect,” declares this saintly skeleton, and with a clear nod, the guardian stands and the smokey fog dissipates.

His goal made clear he now goes forth to the city of the living, to search for this demented spirit.

He passes through this urban sprawl, seeing the lives of the people around him. The sky a darkening blue, with the sun setting slowly in this season of summer. Through short-cuts, passages across back-alleys, he searches for this angry spirit.

The Guardian as he goes to find his quarry across the metropolis. He feels the signs of this spectre, the anger like claw scratches across the walls. Although not visible, he feels disturbed, a sense of frustration and a bottomless fury. The living doesn’t leave such marks, far more material and physical, but the dead leave emotional impressions onto the world. Spots of warm joy, cold sadness or humid displeasure, these were the marks of the dead.

However, this trail the guardian follows is of the most intense of emotions. The trail of anger boils over, as sweat starts to build on his brow. With a severe sadness mixed into this anger, he feels shivers crawl up his spine and his hair stand on end. Even with the intensity of such lethal sentiments, he does not waiver and goes forward.

He goes further and deeper into the city, leading to a deserted house. The place looks small and in disrepair, smashed windows, the door busted on its hinges, and the paint peeling away. He goes closer, feeling that trail getting stronger as he delves further in.

He enters this faulty home, examining the wear and tear. Empty glass bottles lay strewn about, some either whole or broken into shards. Every step crushing on glass, his shoes getting mucked by the filth that lay strewn about the floor. He found mould growing on garbage bags, rats scattering about and cockroaches crawling on the walls. The kitchen a disaster of rotting foods, broken plates, cups and cutlery strewn about. The smell from the kitchen horrendously pungent. If it were not for the crown of flowers, that protected his senses, his face would be a sickly green with an empty heaving stomach.

The anger didn’t swelter with intense heat, the anger felt cold. The mood of this haunting place felt murderous. He even felt his own veins chill as these cold-blooded emotions try to seep into his soul.

Entering the living room, he finds broken furniture torn apart. On the walls, dark red stains are sprayed across the wall, grim marks of a hideous killing. He finds as he looks to the floor, finding bones. He inches closer only until a little group of rats scampered away. He examines them closer seeing some of the rats continue gnawing on the rotten flesh that clung on to these bones.

He could imagine the screams, pleas and begging of the victims. Their spirits aching, tethered to this ghastly house. By just looking around, he finds three decaying corpses across the room. This murderous spirit had to be stopped, before any further harm is inflicted upon the living.

The Guardian goes forward into the depths of the belly of the beast, the emotions getting darker, fiercer and crueller.

How could such a soul have been demented into such a form? He thinks as he puts his hand on to the wall, feeling the rough surface under his palm.

He investigates further, passing a bathroom. He peers in, finding it in a state of just absolute disorder. A broken mirror as if punched through, the toilet and shower all a grimy mess, with tarnishes that no amount of effort could scratch it.

He delves further to the house, finally arriving at the back of this home. He finds a closed door, not as beaten at the entrance, but certainly eroding away. He reaches a hand towards the door knob. As he grabs it, it felt icy cold, so terribly cold to the touch that it burns. He grimaces, but he bites his lip down and pushes the door open.

A shocked gasp escapes his lips as he looks inside to this room.

It is of medium size, with a study desk to one side, a bed to one corner and a closet just right by the door. The Guardian has finally found the source of the anger, the distress and the sorrow of this spirit. The walls are torn and cracked by various attacks towards it, like a trapped animal it ripped everything around it. Tearing and smashing everything until it could escape. But the only thing that remained untouched is a curled up body, in the fetal position as it hugs a pillow with one arm and the other clutching at its chest.

The body looks as if it died in terrible pain. The only clothes that gave this corpse modesty were a boxer short and a white stained shirt. The process of the decay looked slow, almost preserved, mummified in a strange way.

He sees the face looks gaunt, the cheeks stained by courses of rivers. Before the guardian could examine any further, he hears the click of the door behind him shut.

“Get… away…. from… ME!” roars a booming voice.

The Guardian feels then a great forceful hit him slamming him away from the body. He lands smashing on the desk as it breaks by the sheer force. The guardian wobbles and stands, now meeting, at last, the enemy he has come to save from torment.

The spirit although it has the appearance of a man, it simply did not look the part. It has been given mass and shape formed through a dark crimson smoke. It’s face twisted far from the person it once was but given demonic shape. Arms long with hands large with claws, legs spindly like those of a spider with just sharp points to pierce the ground and provide firm footing. The demonic ghost stares at the Guardian with cold pale blue glowing eyes. The ghost roars at the Guardian, the building shakes and quakes by the sheer ferocity.

“Do you dare come to my home? To judge and smite me?” growls the spirit.

“I have not, I come to bring you peace, to resolve your worries. Please spirit, let me help,” pleads the colourful Guardian as he stretches a hand out to him.

“Help? Help! Only till now do you come to save me? Now? Where was this help when I pleaded for anyone to save me from troubles I couldn’t handle?” the spirit retorts as it slams its fits to a wall.

“Let me help, before these harmful emotions shift you to a monster that I cannot save you from!” pleads the guardian again.

“No! You will not help me, you won’t bother to save me! I will be used as just your attraction for others, a trophy to others like you who look down on the defeated. How you will laugh, snicker and taunt, at the state I am in. You will speak of me like I am a failure, a disappointment to all, and a catastrophe for all others to warn against to never become!” argues the furious spirit, as its spiked leg steps forward to the Guardian.

The Guardian takes pause at these words, this spirit too far gone to be moved by words. Demented and warped by these emotions to not be able to see the help that is being put forth to it. The Guardian has no choice but to let his actions speak for him.

“I will save you poor soul, and forgive me for the pain that I must do in my defence,” the Guardian readies himself, in a defensive position ready for the next strike to come.

“Then feel the pain that I have felt, before my death, and the wrath that is now unleashed!” the spirit booms as it leaps towards with a mighty claw to strike at its newest victim.

The spirit swings down, his shadowy red claw coming down to cut this Guardian to shreds. However, as its hit lays true, the claw didn’t strike flesh but passes through a form of smoke. The murderous spectre confused, looks at was once the guardian is but a decoy of colourful smoke. It looks at the wafting smoke baffled when suddenly a set of hands clamp down on the ghost.

The ghost sees a series of spectral colourful skeletal hands cling to it. The ghost turns its head to see the Guardian behind him, his hands glowing with a multicoloured aura around them. He flexes and moves his fingers, like a puppeteer. The skeletal hands force it to turn to him, even as it struggles against their grip, but they lock down tighter.

“Damn you! Damn you! I will not be restrained anymore, by nobody, by no laws of society or rules of behaviour. I will be unobstructed no-more, no longer to hold what I feel back. I can be open, I can be free, and I shall not be bolted by the likes of you!” screams the ghost, as it begins to resist more, the air begins to chill further as it flexes its form and starts to move more even with the spectral restraints.

The Guardian begins to waiver against the resistance. His muscles and fingers begin to ache against the strain of holding on against ghost. However the guardian even with this relentless opposing force against him, he stands his ground.

Just before the ghost could inch closer, the Guardian makes a set of motions with his hands and fingers. The hands no longer hold it in place, but immediately slam the ghost to the ground. The floor cracks from the sheer might, as the ghost struggles further growling in resistance. Then the guardian takes his step forward to it. His hands begin to lighten up, as bright burning spectral skeletal hands surround his own.

The ghost struggles even fiercer, the temperature going icy, that even the guardian’s breaths become misty. The skeletal hands start to show struggle as they could not hold down it any longer.

“You wish to be free?” asks the guardian as he puts his own skeletal hands up like a trained boxer.

“Yes!” answers the ghost as it slowly begins to lift up from the ground, the floor cracking further from the opposing force.

“Then show me your truth, unrestrained and untethered. Reveal for me this pain that has tortured you, that has been held in for so long. Release it, set it free, inflict on me what has been done to you,” provokes the Guardian, as he readies himself for what’s to come.

“You don’t have to ask me twice, to do so, dear cleric of the graves,” snarls the malicious spirit when it finally with all its strength lunges once more to the Guardian.

The skeletal hands each explode in a puff of colourful smoke. From greens to pinks, they burst and strangely bring a sense of life to this dreary room. The demonic spirit lunging with both claws out to reach the guardian. Yet again, they don’t make a single purchase, on their target. For the guardian dodges and weaves in close to the personal space of this ghost.

The Guardian lands with his first strike an uppercut that connects to the jaw of the ghost. The ghost groans in pain, it’s eyes wide in shock. The second hit goes straight to the chest but delves further as the spectral hand clasps at the centre of this ghost. The guardian holding now the focus of this furious spirit, he looks straight into its pale eyes.

“Show me and be cleansed of these pains that have cursed your afterlife.” speaks the guardian with such authority that this vicious spirit even trembles at this mortal creature.

Suddenly a terrible shrieking comes from the spirit as it erupts into colourful flames. The guardian holding it in place, he then enters into this state of intense concentration. As he delves into the last remaining moments of the spirit's life before it’s untimely demise.

The Guardian sees through memories of this spirit of arguments between people, unable to fight back, being shouted back, talked down to and berated without any ground to defend on. The Guardian feels then the descent into the destruction of this poor soul. The drinking, the lack of eating, the long hours of sleep into the day, the late nights of muffled screams and tears. Till the final moments where he saw suddenly the poor soul on his bed clutching to his chest in terrible pain. Tears streaming down, unable to breathe, and the other arm hugging the pillow for comfort, their eyes tights hoping for the pain to go away. It did, and so did the last breaths of life.

The Guardian sees the rage, the sorrow bring this spirit back up, binding it down to the mortal world. Hunting those that demean it and call it a failure. The terrible torturous deaths that only fuelled its insatiable anger and gluttonous sorrow. Now the Guardian with the knowledge he has, with the sacred flames he burns away the impurities of this poisonous rage and venomous sorrow.

The spirit screams in the flames, but it’s once demonic form goes to ashes, leaving only a spectral form of a young person, dishevelled, skinny and utterly defeated.

The guardian’s burning hands fade, he then brings the spirit closer in an embrace.

“I’ve seen your pains, the terrible emotional pain brought upon you. No situation with no place to come out without a chance to be on the right. Forced to lose, forced to be wrong, forced to wallow on their judgements and be seen as this horrible image they placed upon you,” the guardian begins to comfort the spirit, as he holds the weak spirit gently in his arms.

“No matter what, I couldn’t speak up, I couldn’t fight back or stand up for myself. I had neither support nor understanding on my side. They made me believe this way, I tried to be better, to be stronger, but I couldn’t under the pressure. I couldn’t under the criticism no more. I held it in for so long, that it ultimately killed me,” says the spirit in a meek shallow voice

“When I came back, I have beaten my oppressors down. My hand kept going till bones broke and flesh felt soft. I could finally stand against them, I enjoyed the power and I wanted to bring them down. So I did, but it never felt enough it didn’t sit right,” pondered the spirit, wondering on their actions.

“Please let me have peace, please these passions have gone far enough. I don’t wish to be this monster, I want to rest. I just want to be free from these horrible emotions that poison me,” the spirit cries as it chokes back on the last few words.

“Don’t hold it back, cry freely, I am here to hold on to you. You are safe, the chains that have choked you are gone. Rest poor spirit, rest,” says the guardian as he comforts the crestfallen spirit.

The spirit then starts to cry, it wails and weeps in his arms. It cries and cries, releasing all the pain that has been locked up inside of it. Now at last free from the cage of anger and sorrow. With its final whimpers, the ghost begins to slowly fade till it fully disappears. Finally the spirit has been cleanse of all its gloom, the guardian leaves the abode.

The temperature of the home, begins to warm up. The once former lair of the murderous spirit is released from its tyrannical rule of spiteful anger and hateful sadness. The guardian as he steps further out and away from the house. He turns, raises a hand and snaps his fingers. The house is set ablaze, the fire not an intense red flame, but the same multi-coloured rainbow-like fire that purified the spirit.

The Guardian begins to walk away, the fires behind rapidly consuming the haunted house till nothing but ash remains. As he walks away, his own form begins to change. His legs start to turn to colourful smoke, rising up to his hips and then to his shoulders. Where all that is left is a plume of smoke with a beautiful floating skull mask with a crown of flowers on its head. The Guardian now in this new form begins to fly away, soaring across the living.

Other spirits begin to fly alongside him, spectral lights that just travel high above the mortals of the earth. The dead whether being kind ghosts, cunning spectres or cruel wraiths, they simply trail the now night sky. For another tormented spirit has been set free, to fade into the afterlife in peace, free from all its tragic binds. For as promised, this cleric of the grave has found the woes of a troubled soul and gave it its final rest.

#horror #fiction #creativity #shortstory