# Stained Glass - A Short Story ## Foreword I wrote this while on a layover on the way home from a trip to London. I had a few hours to spend while sitting at the airport, so I did what most people do and wrote a short story. I can't speak to any degree of quality, as this was more of a consciousness type of writing. I hope you enjoy! ## Stained Glass Anthony looked on from the threshold of the kitchen towards the front door, holding his usual morning cup of coffee to his lips. Before taking a drink he thought better of it, and blew gently across the surface to take the edge off of the scalding heat. He considered the entryway down the hall; its typical rectangular shape, the dark wood framing the door and windows, the windows themselves lit with a vintage yellow stain, and frosted such that you couldn't see through them. Above the door, a stained glass window crowned the gateway to his home. The colors were vibrant and varied, showing a scene of sunsets, meadows, and skies. Interestingly, none of the colors really matched what you would expect in such a scene. The sun was a dark violet casting rays of blue, the grassy meadow glistened brilliant shades of orange, and the skies themselves were a faint white. He paused as he took a sip from the cup in his hand. For some reason, he couldn't remember ever actually having looked at the stained glass closely. The colors didn't seem familiar to him, even though he had lived there for years. He lowered the cup down to his side as he thought about this, certainly it was always this way? The window definitely hadn't been changed since he had lived there — about two years now — and as far as he knew it was original to the home. The house had been built in the 1910s; over 100 years ago at this point. "Hmm…" Anthony murmured to himself. He wondered if he had really just never taken the time to look at the glass, and make the observation that the colors were perhaps just more creative than realistic. Shrugging slightly, he glanced down at his coffee — now half-gone — and turned to sit at the dining table. The swirling markings and knots on the wooden table's surface drew his attention briefly, but he was now mosly preoccupied with the schedule for the day. After coffee meant getting dressed and ready for work, which — glancing at his watch — needed to happen sooner rather than later. It was already 7:31AM. He must be moving a little slower this morning. Draining the last remnants of his coffee's comforting warmth, he stood up and moved to rinse out the cup in the kitchen sink. As he moved back towards the entryway and into the hall where the stairs were, he glanced back up at the stained glass as rays of light caught his eye. He couldn't help but feel a bit enthralled by the brilliant shimmers along the raised edges of the wavy glass. The colors were almost hard to describe, gleaming in shades that would hard — impossible? — to place on a color wheel. It seemed as though the light, the glass, the window itself, were all alive. Anthony started suddenly, realizing that the light through the glass no longer shone like before. Perhaps clouds had moved across the sun, obscuring it's usual morning light on this side of the house. He glanced down at his watch again, now conscious of that fact that he had been running behind. "Only 7:22, I still have time." he thought to himself. He took the stairs two at a time, trying to stay ahead of the inevitable passage of the clock as worktime approached. As he reached the upstairs landing, he thought about the usual morning checklist of things to do before leaving: "Get clothes out, shower, probably should move the laundry over quick…7:22?" he stopped short of the bedroom door. For just a moment his thoughts were blank — totally perplexed at the inconsistency he had just realized. It had been after 7:30 before left the kitchen; he had been running behind. Bringing his watch up closer to his eyes, he subconsciously reached over to the light switch to illuminate the hands and face of the timepiece. The hands spelled out 7:22. "What?…" he said to himself exasperatedly. Did it stop at 7:22? That can't be, because it read 7:30 earlier. Maybe I just misread the time. That has to be it. Looking to the bedroom door, he decided to check the alarm clock on the nightstand to confirm his suspicion. Closing the distance quickly, he pushed open the doorly forcefully and looked towards the nightstand. The alarm clock was there as it always was, broadcasting its declaration of time in piercing red glyphs. Moving closer he could read the time clearly on it: "7:22 PM." Turning back to the stairs landing, Anthony had another question occur to him: "Why is it so dark in here?" The hallway was illuminated by the ceiling light he had turned out moments ago, but there were multiple windows on either side of the upstairs corridor. As his turned his attention between each of the windows, it was clear that all of them confirmed the alarm clock's insistence: it was nighttime. "How can that be?" he wondered, astonished. Stepping quickly towards the nearest window, he worked to open it. It was an original window, the aged wood that had been painted innumerable times resisted such things. The elderly thing groaned and creaked as if complaining with each small bit of progress. Finally after crouching down and pushing upward with all of his strength, it finally gave way and elevated sorely out of the way. Peering out, Anthony could see nothing. It was pitch black outside. Was it a new moon? Even then, you'd at least be able to see faint outlines of the ground and foliage. The house was located in the suburbs, so there should at least be some light spilling over from streetlights around in front of the property. Leaving the open window, he turned and rounded the stairs, quickly bounding down them as fast as he safely could. The windows around the door were darkened as before, perhaps more so. The stained glass above didn't have any of the glistening color that the daylight hours had provided. Looking past this, he reached for the doorknob and wrenched it around in his hand. It didn't budge, however. He tried again, turning it in alternating directions to make sure it hadn't gotten stuck. The old-fashioned key was in the keyhole as it always was, he turned it all the way around counterclockwise, but it seemed backwards from what he remembered. Turning it that way should lock the door. Regardless, he tried the knob again, but it was every bit as stuck as it was before. It didn't even seem to just be locked. It was as if it was glued or welded, making completely immobile. A bit of cold sweat broke out on Anthony's brow. Too much wasn't making sense. He turned and crossed over into the living room outside of the hallway, across from the stairs. He looked out the bay window towards the street, but it was every bit as dark outside as it was from the one upstairs. He raised his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in concentration and annoyance. The back door. As soon as it occurred to him, he made for the hallway and turned opposite of the front door, moving towards the kitchen. A sudden noise halted him in his tracks. He turned — holding his breath to try and hear what it was. There was a faint humming or rumbling coming from the front door, or more likely from beyond it. It seemed to be growing slightly louder with time as he listened. The hairs on the back of Anthony's neck stood on end, and his skin erupted in goosebumps. It wasn't a comforting noise, whatever it was. Turning again towards the kitchen, he proceeded in and faced the back door. Nothing seems out of the ordinary here. He stepped towards it and grasped the knob. Partly expecting it to be locked in place like the front door's, he was almost surprised when it actually turned in his grip. He turned it completely around, and felt the door give way as the latch cleared the frame. Slowly, inexorably, he pulled the door towards himself, opening himself to the dark night beyond. It became very obvious that something was off. There was no noise, no sound at all besides that constant droning, now considerably louder with the door open. He apprehensively stepped forward across the threshold. Looking around though, it seemed that things at least appeared normal. Stepping forward again, he made to step out onto the back porch to get a better look around. Immediately he was knocked backward, as if running into a wall. He caught his balance, shocked by the sudden physical barrier. He couldn't see anything in his way, as if he had run into clear plastic or glass that couldn't be seen in the dim light. Reaching out, his hand met a surface that was hard to describe. It was as if he was touching paper or canvas. Getting closer to it, he could now tell that he wasn't seeing through anything at all, it was a fake rendering of the outside — like a backdrop on a movie set. He pressed his hand harder into the surface, and he could feel it give just like a canvas would. He couldn't tell if he was breathing or not at this point, all of his attention was completely focused on what was in front of him. He put his weight behind his hand and punched hard at the surface. It tore quite easily, ripping like any paper or canvas would. Pulling his hand back he peered through the hole, but saw nothing — it was all black. Grasping two loose ends of the torn material, he pulled hard on them and the surface opened up. Finally he could see very clearly through it, but it gave him no comfort. There was only black. He stepped through it onto the porch, a narrow piece of concrete attached to the house. Peering around he could see no shapes or outlines of anything. Looking down he felt an awful sense of vertigo, there was no ground beyond the porch. Gasping and feeling unsteady, Anthony stepped back into the kitchen — to safety. Breathing hard and shaking slightly, he was well into panicking now. None of this made sense! Was it a dream? It didn't feel like one. An idea occurred to him, and he walked over to the kitchen sink. Grabbing his coffee cup from earlier — when actually was that? — he turned back towards the back door and walked to the porch. Stepping carefully through the torn faux wall, he again peered down into the black nothing below. Reaching out, he held the coffee cup aloft, hovering over the edge. Finally, he opened his shaking hand and let it fall. He watched it carefully, but it made no contact with what should have been the ground. It kept falling. Still he watched it get smaller and smaller until finally, it was no longer visible against the black abyss. He took a step back, not letting his eyes leave where the cup should have been. The edge of the torn material behind him caught his foot, causing him to lose his balance. He let out a shriek as he fell, not wanting to meet the same fate as the cup, but he only fell backwards into the kitchen. Now sitting uncertainly on the kitchen floor, he drew his knees in and wrapped his arms around his legs, resting his chin on them. He gazed out into what should've been the backyard nightscape. The droning was loud now to the point where it was hard to ignore. It echoed in his ears, threatening to push him over the edge. His heart was racing, and he could feel his pulse throughout his body. Looking to his left, he could see to the front door from where he sat. He noticed it almost immediately: a silhouette beyond the front door. There was something out there on the front porch. It wasn't a shape that he could describe, certainly not a person. Then he heard it, a slight metallic sound. The front doorknob was moving, turning ever so slowly. He was frozen, completely succumbing to fear. His eyes opened wide, staring at the door. Finally, the door knob stopped turning, and the front door slowly swung open. The droning sound was deafening now, it became impossible to hear anything else as the door opened further. The silhouette was obscured by the door as it opened, but then he could see the figure standing beyond. Now Anthony's breathing stopped completely. He was motionless, unable to comprehend what he saw. The figure didn't move, and neither did he. They stared at each other for a moment. He finally stood, shaking like a leaf. Then it started to move towards Anthony, stepping across the front door threshold in an unnatural, jerky motion. The claws on its limbs made hard clacking sounds on the wood floor as it did so. Then it began to move faster, rapidly covering the ground between itself and Anthony. Unable to bear the thing, and without anywhere else to go, he rushed to the back door, stepping out onto porch. As before, there was only the black abyss to greet him. Looking over his shoulder, the thing rounded the corner into the kitchen, locking its many eyes on him. "No!" Anthony whispered softly, terrified. Without thinking, he turned away and ran — straight off the edge of the porch — and then he began to fall. END #writing #short_story