If Walls Could Talk

AUTHOR: bcfan
FEEDBACK: bcfan@shaw.ca
NOTE: This story was written for Haven's Our House Challenge
SPOILERS: How the Ghosts Stole Christmas
THANKS: and humble felicitations to Bobby Miller and Cole Porter
SUMMARY: Measuring the pulse of time.


***

If walls could talk then I'm sure you'd hear
A whole lot of things to make you cry, my dear.
So ain't you glad, ooh, ain't you glad
That walls don't talk.

***

A couple moved in yesterday.

The comings and goings are easy to ignore but - this was different - a pattern changed. And that changed everything.

Musical ditties run through, run through. Spiders' webs are woven and broken, then rebuilt. A couple moved in yesterday, and that changed everything.

Changed everything and changed nothing. But a couple moved in yesterday, and they became my spiders, they built my webs.

A sigh of contentment.

/I love the look of you, the lure of you
The sweet of you, and the pure of you/

A couple moved in yesterday, and that was enough. Until suddenly it wasn't anymore. The spiders felt my itchy restlessness and instinct told them to lure, to hunt.

My good spiders.

So sweet and wise in their ways.

Others came and were nurtured. They nurtured and fed but something was changing. The pulse was quickening.

/The eyes, the arms, and the mouth of you
The east, west, north, and the south of you/

Last night a couple came. A new taste. The taste of anger and despair mixed with foolish love.

Anger is a heady, dark, forbidden taste. Their metallic-scented final moments were savoured.

Savoured and became a new impulse.

After anger, bland depression is like ashes. My spiders need to work harder now.

I need more.

I need more.

I need.

I'm waiting and the spiders offer one double treat - then it's silence. No one comes to the web. Tattered weaving. Sullied spells.

I'm desperate and huff out a dark and lonely breath.

I began to whisper.

/I'd love to gain complete control of you
Handle even the heart and soul of you/

The cold chills, but souls are hot.

Two new ones entered a minute ago. Their souls are burning. Their blood runs like fire.

My redemption.

My spiders are crazed in their spinning of the Yuletide, illusions of the spirits. When they begin throwing up brick walls I feel a giggle.

The taste of success is blood soaking down to the foundation. The illusion is there. Surety will follow. It always does.

But no.

I should be incapable of surprise. I feel it anyway, from my eaves scraping the sky to the bottom of my being nestled in the pulsing earth.

A couple entered a minute ago and - this was different - a pattern changed. And that changed everything.

I feel a retreating. A need to heal.

My spiders seem content in front of the fire, and I must also be content. I have no choice.

I sigh into the known.

/Love at least a small percent of me do
Cause I love all of you/