Norman's Room - Senior Chatters

The cold, metal doorknob turns easily in my hand. As I push the door open it groans with an eeriness sounding like the moans of a tired old man. The clock in the corner is ticking away methodically measuring lost time.

The walls of my sparsely furnished room are bare and cold; I wander over to my old comfortable chair. The chair creaks softly with a comforting sound as I settle back and rest my head against its frame.

Slowly I reach forward and open the drawer of the desk. Inside my hand moves over the soft, leather cover of my diary. Lifting it from it’s customary resting place, I lay the old, worn book on top of the desk. The tips of my fingers move over the cover and I feel the familiar, worn spot just to the side of the clasp, and I begin to think back over the years.

The old book opens easily within my hands and I begin to turn the pages slowly, looking for an empty page. Each page seems to whisper to me as it stands up in my hand, and settles back onto the other side of the book with a slight rustling sound.

The clock seems to be watching me as it sits timelessly ticking away the minutes.

Taking my pen in between my fingers, I begin to notice how the skin on my hand has begun to resemble the old, worn leather of the book. Placing the tip of the pen against the smooth, yellowed paper my thoughts began filling the page.

“Norman! If you want your clothes washed you need to bring them to me.” My mother was holding a laundry basket in her arms. “Your clothes seem to have vanished off the face of the earth. Have you been hiding them under the bed again?”

“No Mom.” I looked away because I didn’t dare look into her eyes. She would know somehow that I was not telling the truth. “Maybe they just got pushed under there by mistake.”

My mother took a deep breath and told me to go see if somehow they got misplaced. I felt even more guilty for lying to my mother because she had not scolded me. As I opened the door of my room I found Jeffrey, my little brother sitting in the middle of my floor. My baseball cards were spread out all around him along with the remains of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Jeffrey! Get out of my room!” I picked up my prized Hank Aaron card and noticed a huge grape jelly thumb print right in the middle of the card. Jeffrey dropped his teddy bear and went running out of my room; I slammed the door behind him. Remembering that my mother wanted my dirty clothes I walked over to my bed. I reached underneath the corner where I had pushed them, but I couldn’t feel them. I pushed the blankets up and looked under the bed. It seemed darker than usual and I couldn’t see my clothes. One sock was lying beneath my bed, all alone. Suddenly, a gust of wind swirled through my room and the windows were forced open. I felt my eyes growing larger as my sock was quickly sucked into a dark hole beneath my bed. I wanted to run but felt as if I had been cemented to the floor. I opened my mouth to yell but my voice couldn’t be found. My heart was beating wildly in my chest and I finally managed to get onto my feet. I ran for the door without thinking. I had to get away.

“Mom!” I yelled out as I tried to catch my breath. “Something under my bed . . .” I gasped for another breath, “something took my clothes!”

“Norman, calm down. What’s the matter?” my mother knelt down beside me and asked. She placed her hand on my face and looked concerned.

“Something took my clothes. They just disappeared.” I took a deep breath and stepped away from my mother a little. I didn’t want her to notice I was nearly crying; I was eleven and a half years old, not a baby like Jeffery.

My mother walked back to my room with me to prove that nothing could have taken my clothes. She opened the door.

“Norman? Why are your windows open?” She quickly closed them.

“The hole under my bed, did it.” I pointed toward my bed.

My mother pulled the blankets up, showing me there was nothing under my bed.

“See Norman. There is no hole under your bed.” She smiled, “This is the first time I have seen it clean under here.” She stood up and walked out of my room.

I had seen something under there. I had an idea; I had to test it. Maybe something needed to be under the bed for it to happen. What would I use to make it come back? I looked around my room. It already had most of my clothes. I didn’t want to lose any of my good stuff. Jeffrey’s teddy bear. . . that’ll work. The little creep deserves it anyway for ruining my cards.

With the bait in my hands I lifted the blanket. I leaned down and slowly slid the bear underneath my bed. I heard my door open and Jeffrey rushed in.

“What are you doing with Harry?” Jeffrey whined.

I began to feel a little guilty, after all Harry was Jeffrey’s favorite toy. Suddenly the windows flew open and I felt Harry being pulled away. I watched as the hole began to open and I tried to pull Harry back. I could hear Harry’s stitches being pulled and torn. I abruptly fell backwards and watched Harry being pulled down into the swirling, black hole of nothing.

I sat there, looking at the dismembered arm of Harry, when Jeffrey jumped on top of me.

“What did you do to Harry?” Jeffrey grabbed the arm from my hand and began to crawl under my bed.

“Jeffrey! No!” I tried to grab him but he was gone before I could reach him. I heard him screaming. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t want to admit that I was too scared to go down there after him. Jeffrey’s screams faded as the hole slowly began to close. I sat there looking at the space that had just swallowed up my little brother.

“Norman?” My mother’s hand was on my shoulder. “Why won’t you answer me? Why are these windows open again?”

“Jeffrey’s gone. I tried to grab him, but the hole swallowed him.” I pointed to the bed, “He went under there; I tried to stop him.”

“Are you two fighting again? I wish the two of you would learn to get along.” My mother lifted up the blanket to look for Jeffrey. I felt the gust of wind blowing through my room.

“Mom don’t look under there.” It had already caught her; she was quickly pulled down into the hole. I could hear my mother’s screams as she was pulled deeper inside, then it closed.

My room had gone silent; the faint ticking of my clock seemed to grow louder as it measured the minutes passing away. Darkness began to drape over my room casting fiendish shadows on the walls. The large, luminescent full moon peeked through the branches of the tree that were waving slowly in the wind causing them to look like long, boney fingers reaching through my window.

I grabbed my blanket and I threw it over my head and waited for sleep.

I was startled awake by a loud noise. A gust of wind caused the windows to fly open. I peeked over the top of the blanket and I saw the wall of my room begin to ripple and wave as if it were under water. The hole began to open and it was growing larger. The center of the hole was unending blackness. In the midst of the swirling, black nothing were eyes, so many eyes looking out at me. I thought I heard my mother’s voice calling out from a cloud that was swirling around in the black emptiness. Were those my mother’s eyes? I could no longer endure looking into that sea of searching eyes. I pulled the blanket over my head and wrapped it tightly around myself. I felt hidden from whatever was growing in my room. I listened to the ticking of my clock. The repetitious ticking faded into the background as it lulled me to sleep.

I woke up fighting my way out of my blanket. It seemed to be pulling me down as if it were trying to restrain me in my chair. The sun was up and I could hear the birds outside my open window. The birds didn’t seem to be singing their happy, carefree songs this morning. They seemed to be crying out a warning for others to hear. Their voices seemed to be chaotic and fearful. I leaned out the window and I saw it. The hole.

What had been the park was now a huge abyss of eyes. There were not many people in the streets and the people I did see were being pulled against their will into the black pit. The birds were frantically fighting the force of the wind, most of them losing their battle. The hole closed slowly as the last living thing was being pulled in. I was left alone in a silent world. The only sound was the constant ticking of the clock that reminded me I was still here.

My stomach tightened and I heard a rumble. Mom wasn’t here to cook breakfast and I was hungry. She was going to get groceries, but she couldn’t do that now. I decided to go down the street and see if there was anyone at the grocery store.

I stepped outside and began walking down the street. The wind was slightly blowing and the only noises I heard were the crisp leaves as they brushed against each other. I saw no one, no dogs, no birds only vacant houses and empty cars. There was an abandoned bicycle laying in the street. I felt my stomach tighten again; I wasn’t sure if it was out of hunger or fear. I continued to walk toward the grocery store. I was passing Junior’s house now. His basketball was resting in the gutter in the front of his house.

Just around the corner was the grocery store. I began to run and as I came to the automatic doors, they opened welcoming me inside. The building seemed to echo. I didn’t see anyone. I found a grocery cart and began filling it with food. I put several packages of Oreo cookies in the cart and opened one package and began eating them as I walked through the aisles. I got a carton of milk, Nestles Quik, a six-pack of Coca Cola and I found a box of Hershey chocolate bars. I filled the cart with Spaghetti-O’s and decided to take my groceries home. I pushed the cart full of groceries toward my house as I ate Oreo cookies and washed them down with a bottle of Coca Cola.

I felt my stomach begin to rumble and my thoughts were disrupted. I placed my pen between the pages of my diary. I stood up straightening my back and stretching. I walked out the door of my room and walked down the stairs with my hand sliding along the banister. I stopped when I came to the large mirror that hung on the wall. The face I saw looking back at me looked more like my father than myself. My hair had begun to gray along the sides. My father never had a beard. I don’t recall when I began growing a beard, but it became so long that one day I took the scissors and just cut it off.

I walked into the kitchen and found the grocery cart. There were only three cans of Spaghetti-O’s and one can of Ravioli left. In the bottom drawer of my desk is a box of M&M’s, but they have begun to change colors. The last time I had tasted one it was like biting into gray, gritty wax and it seemed to just crumble in my mouth. I spit it back out and have never opened another bag. I took out a can of Spaghetti-O’s and carefully opened it with the can opener. I found my fork and sat down at the table. I slowly ate my familiar meal. I rolled the cold, saucy pasta around in my mouth and then swallowed. It wasn’t long before the can was empty. I walked over to the sink and rinsed off my fork, then walked toward the back door and opened it. I threw the can through the air watching as it landed perfectly on top of the mountain of cans in the backyard. I heard the can clank against the others and clatter and clang as it rolled down the mountain finally finding a resting place along the bottom of the pile.

Before closing the door I noticed the sun was beginning to fade behind the hills. The sky that had been a soft blue and full of cotton candy clouds, was now a brilliant orange with soft streaks of pink. The trees had become dark silhouette statues that seemed to be guarding the isolated town. However, it was a futile fight; the hole would sneak up on its victims swallowing everyone in its path. They became prisoners inside that deep, black, swirling pit of nothing. The tree soldiers returned each and every night diligently standing their ground. I pulled the door toward me and heard the latch fall into place; then I retreated to my room.

I remember the afternoon I was watching Popeye on the TV. He was just about to eat his spinach so he could save Olive Oyl from Bluto again. A man interrupted the show claiming there was some type of emergency but before he could say anything else; the people on the TV began to scream. The man’s mouth opened wide and his face seemed to freeze in terror. Then with no warning the screen became black and it made me dizzy to watch it. I saw them; the eyes were filling the screen of the television. Suddenly the eyes disappeared and all that was left was that funny, gray screen that did nothing but hiss.

With each passing day more and more television stations disappeared. It was not long before there were no stations left. I no longer bothered turning the television on. I found my mother’s radio and brought it into my room. Each evening I would turn the radio on and listen; it was reassuring to hear a human voice. I would sit back in my chair and pull the blankets tightly around myself as I closed my eyes. The voice would talk to me, and for a moment in time I did not feel all alone

I had grown accustomed to the sudden gust of wind that entered my room with no warning, always bringing with it that monstrous, black hole. I noticed with each returning visit that it was growing larger as it consumed town after town. Sometimes, I thought I heard my mother calling my name, but the sounds coming from the hole were so distorted, I could never be sure.

I don’t know why the hole continued to return to my room. I don’t know why I was the only one that was left alive in my town. I am not sure how long it has been since that monster appeared beneath my bed. Has it been months, perhaps even years? I don’t know if my appearance is changing because of the time that has passed, or whether it is the effect of the hole. I’m not sure if its victims are being held against their will, tormented constantly in that revolving, black hole or are they in another place in time possibly living a better life. The only thing I was sure of was the fact that I was too scared to join them.

Tonight there would be no voices from the radio to keep me company. The last station had gone dead last night. My room had become dark and I could no longer see well enough to continue writing. I laid the pen down on the desk against the book. I reached to the side of the desk and opened the small drawer placing my hand inside. My hand found what it had been searching for. A small box. I slid the box open and pulled out a single match. As I struck the match along the side of the box it ignited with a sudden crackle. I lit the lantern that sat on my desk and I looked down at the ink-filled pages. I closed the book sliding my hand along the soft, leather cover. I rested my head against the back of the chair. The flame in the lamp caused shadows to dance along the walls. My eyes came to rest on the face of the clock. Ticking . . . constantly ticking, keeping track of the time. I was not startled by the sudden gust of wind or the sudden bang as my windows blew open.

Norman’s room . . . the bare walls frame the sparsely furnished room. The windows wide open, and the shutters bang methodically against the house as they are caught in the breeze. A worn, quilted blanket drapes over one arm of a large chair. An opened book sits on the top of the desk. Now and then a page is caught in the breeze, causing it to stand; the page flutters and dances in the wind. Across from the desk in the opposite corner is a large clock. The constant ticking echos through the room, measuring ageless time.

I wrote this while married to my late husband. The young boy was based on him and how I imagined him as a young boy. He was often my inspiration for some of my favorite writing. This short story will always be dedicated to him. . . Norman Franklin Higgs III.

I did enter this story into a writing contest at the college I attended and it won first place. I won some money; I took my young daughter out for dinner and to a movie of her choice for some mom and daughter time. A friend mentioned my writing to a woman he knew in Canada and she asked if she could publish some of my work in her magazine, “The Looking Glass”. “Norman’s Room” was published in four parts in four magazines. She also published “Cyberchat”, “A Piece of Paper” and “I Call Her Grandma”. Some of my writing wishes have come true for me.

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