Contemporary story
On

The Lover

She was glad of the lake. It's soft, dark water helped to soothe and quiet her mind. It took her away from the noisy, squawkish world of the cat-walk and let her lie untroubled at its side, listening only to the gentle lapping of its waves.

She felt at peace. Alone. Unhindered and free. Free to do nothing but watch and listen and dream.

London, Paris, New York - names, only names. Names that had once meant excitement, then boredom, then frustration, then slavery. Names that had brought her to the edge of a breakdown and left her doubting her own sanity.

But here everything was at peace. The lake, the trees, the cottage. And she was at one with them. Here she could stay for the rest of her life. Here she would be happy to die.

Across the sun hurried a darkening filter of cloud; the advance guard of a larger and even graver army. The ripples on the water, chased by a freshening wind, pushed their way anxiously from the far side of the lake until they almost bounced at her feet. Way above her a solitary rook cawed its way home - a lonely, troubled sound. And in the East there was thunder.

Quickly she gathered her things together and made for the cottage. But already the rain flecked the water behind her and pattered the leaves as she raced beneath the trees. Sodden and breathless, she ran for the cottage door, and, as she opened it, the storm burst.

And there on the hearth, gaunt and unwelcome, stood a man.

'Hello!'

It was an odd way to greet a complete stranger who had invaded her home, but it was all she could think of to say. A casual greeting to someone who seemed to be expecting her, waiting for her. Maybe it was the way they did things down here?

'I suppose you had to shelter from the storm too?' she asked.

The man said nothing.

She ought to have been angry at this rude intrusion on her privacy, but anger somehow seemed pointless. It was as if the cottage was his, the hearth was his, and she had come out of the storm to seek refuge at his door.

←2→

She watched him, cautiously; waiting for an explanation. He said nothing. Not a word.

'Did you get wet?' she asked.

He stood, huddled by the open fire, gazing at the dying embers.

She walked over, brushing against him as she bent to stir the logs into life, but still he did not move. Erratically the flames burst forth, lighting up the sadness in his dark eyes.

 

'And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up and all the cottage warm . . . '

 

The words , spoken by him in a quiet, toneless voice, took her by surprise.

'Pardon?' she said.

But he seemed not to hear. Only the shiver of wind in the trees and the tittering of rain on the thatched roof broke that eerie silence.

She tried once more. 'It looks as if it's set in for the evening. Would you like to sit down for a while?'

His eyes followed her as she moved to take off her coat and brush out her hair.

 

'...............................and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall . . . '

 

Poetry. He was quoting poetry.

He looked vaguely like a poet; lean, distressed, with a certain bitterness in his eyes and hopelessness in his form. And his voice was deep and languid, like the middle of the lake where the water ran darkest.

Yet those were not his lines. The words were not created by him. They were somehow familiar. Half remembered. Surely she had heard them before?

'Did you write that?' she asked, forcing herself to make conversation.

He smiled, a pitiful smile, but did not answer.

As she watched him she had the feeling that he'd let himself into the cottage knowing that she would return. He'd been waiting for her. Expecting her. She was sure of it. And, for the first time, she was afraid.

←3→

She turned towards the window. No one was outside. Just the rain beating unceasingly.

She knew she'd never make it to the village, and no one would hear if she cried out. She was alone, completely alone with this frighteningly silent stranger.

A sudden renting sound outside made her jump: a splintering of wood followed by a crashing to the ground.

 

'It tore the elm tops down for spite And did its worst to vex the lake . . . '

 

That poem again! That same poem! What was it? Why did it fit the scene so perfectly? And why couldn't she remember it?

'What an awful wind,' she said as casually as possibly. 'Perhaps I ought to make sure that --- '

She had been working her way towards the door when he turned and slowly shook his head.

She stopped. Hypnotised. Unable to take another step away from him.

Destiny, her mind told her. This is your destiny; what you were created for. London, Paris, New York - no matter where you went you had to return here. To this cottage. To this man.

Quietly he walked towards her, past her, and on towards the heavy oak door. The key twisted in the lock, the shutters closed silently over the windows.

Gently, very gently, he took her arm and led her back to the hearth and the blazing fire. They were alone and she wanted to scream, but she couldn't.

 

' And last she sat down by my side And called me . . . . . '

 

That poem! That damned poem! How did it go? Please God, how did it go? Please, please let her remember!

 

' . . . when no voice replied She put my arm about her waist And made her smooth white shoulder bare . . . '

 

His left arm held her tightly, the slender fingers biting into her skin, while his right hand caressed the softness of her fair hair.

←4

 

'But passion sometimes would prevail Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her . . . . . . .'

 

Love? This wasn't love! This was madness. Insanity. He was crazy. He'd taken something of beauty and twisted it into macabre reality.

 

'Be sure I looked up at her eyes . . . '

 

His own eyes shone with a maniacal fervour.

 

'Happy and proud at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me . . . '

 

Porphyria! Browning's poem! She knew it! Oh my god, no! No! No!

 

'That moment she was mine, mine fair Perfectly pure and good . . . '

 

She wanted to scream. She tried to scream. But she couldn't. His fingers were about her throat and no sound emerged. She fought for air but she could feel her body falling, falling. Her mind struggled to escape from the darkness but all she could hear was a voice, a distant voice, fading, ecstatic . . . .

' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around And strangled her . . . .

Options

Introducing your ereader mobile app!

Manybooks

Get The Best Reading Experience

App linkApp link

Rate this story:

Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

Submitted by admin on Wed, 05/28/2003 - 22:35

Permalink

Starts out promising, but it feels rushed. It needs a better progression of emotions rather than, "She was not afraid, beat, she was terrified." Keep writing, your style is promising.

Submitted by admin on Tue, 12/16/2003 - 22:35

Permalink

This story was definitely a great story. It kept me in suspense through the whole story because she couldnt think of what poem he was speaking, and finally in the end when she realized what poem he was speaking it was too late. I like how she realized what poem it was right before the end because it made it a more horrifying death. Great job on this story.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 01/17/2004 - 22:21

Permalink

I thought that the story was fantasic,it was haunting and reflected on reality and could have happend rather than some ghost or vampire story.i look forward to the writers future storys because this was one of the few i enjoyed.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 07/02/2004 - 13:11

Permalink

I really enjoyed this story, since I am a big fan of horror stories. There was some lose ends that didnt seem to fit very well with me, however that could just have been me. I like everything, but when the man has entered and receites the poem, wouldnt she be more upset or scared? I know I would terrified. And i take it that she is a model and he is the stalker? Just some questions left unanswered, but in a way thats good because it lets the reader make up their own mind about things.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 07/05/2004 - 09:36

Permalink

The paragraph describing the advancing storm is good and language has been used in an original way! However, I soon realisied she would die and despite the tension leading up to her death, felt a little unmoved by it all. Perhaps with a different theme the writer could develop the story, bring in conflict and achieve more.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 07/26/2006 - 20:59

Permalink

I absoloutely loved it, but the ending kept me wanting to know more. For example, the motive to kill her wasnt anounced. Mr. Woods could have added more information, although the detailing was very good for such a story.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 11/04/2006 - 22:10

Permalink

Many of the questions and doubts expressed here by others seem to be due to the fact that they do not know the Browning poem. I know it well and liked the incorporation of poem and story - however there could have been too much of an in-built reliance on knowing the contents of Porphyrias Lover. In the poem, Porphyria of course knows her lover but in this story the male is a stranger. I wonder if the deranged lover could have been reciting the poem since the murder of the model by someone who loved her would have been all the more gruesome.

Submitted by admin on Wed, 12/05/2007 - 13:40

Permalink

I loved this... Just reviewed it for a creative writing class, actually... HI DR. DARLING!!
Great use of dramatic irony! From the first line he speaks, all I could think was uh-oh... The man reciting the poem seemed a much more realistic portrayal of a stalker than the speaker in the poem. It reminded me of the assassination of John Lennon, in which Mark David Chapman didnt kill Lennon because he wanted to; he actually felt he had to. He was actually a big fan of Lennons, but somewhere in between his twisted psyche and obsessive reading of Catcher in the Rye, he developed the belief that it was something he had to do. This is apparently what happened here, and while some people might not recognize the Browning reference right away, its a frighteningly realistic concept. Eeep. Love it.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 03/24/2008 - 21:53

Permalink

I liked this story- it had good descriptive text,was classy and easy to read and seemed to be a fairly complete package.
I think the main character had an inkling of her fate whenever she set eyes on her strange visitor.
Hope I never have enough money to live in a deluxe country retreat.Not alone at any rate.

Submitted by admin on Sat, 12/06/2008 - 14:10

Permalink

The beginning seems sort of cliché to me. I think that as the writer describes the main characters freedom, that he should have used more sensory imagery or even metaphors or similes, to describe it. It is an example of using other literature as a set off of your own work because Wood uses “Porohyria’s Lover,” but I think it isn’t realy done too well. There is no character development, there is no real plot. It is merely a girl who walks into her cottage and gets attacked by a man who is reciting this poem. We get no idea of who she is except that she may be a model or something like that and that she is vacationing. There is not real setting, though her surroundings are described nicely in some places. The advancing storm was a good use of foreshadowing. I think that there were tools used well, but the story as an entire piece accomplishes very little. I think that the structure is help up only by the premise of the poem and I don’t know if I personally like that. I think that the story is really weak. The first one I really liked very little. The language is very inconsistent. Sometimes it is romantic-like and then its not, I think that the narrator doesn’t have much of a voice either.

Submitted by admin on Fri, 05/08/2009 - 13:06

Permalink

The whole plot is vaguely illustrated. The characters background is highly interchangeable. Though its great that the woman remembered the poem just when it is too late for her to save herself. The concept, being simple yet original, has a good potential, it just needs to be polished. It needs more twists like strong signs of struggling of the protagonist to escape the impending doom, but doing so would only further fulfill whats written.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 09/14/2009 - 19:18

Permalink

i love it

Submitted by admin on Mon, 10/26/2009 - 20:56

Permalink

i remember that i read this story in class . it was soo intresting i read it about 2 or 3 times . i really like this story . although i didnt like how it began. i was confused but i read it . and it was good :) i think there should be NAMES in this story i mean all i can call them is the girl and the stranger . but overall its a great story . keep up the good work james !

Submitted by admin on Sun, 09/16/2012 - 01:51

Permalink

This story is oddly intriguing, the story portrays the intensity of the meaning of the poem, the obsession of the stalker is revealed in a clever way. She sensed her demise in a chilling moment that was expressed by the nagging familiarity of the stalkers words.

Submitted by admin on Mon, 10/29/2012 - 21:35

Permalink

I actually thought that the lover was a manifestation created in her mind, and that in the end, she isn’t killed by an external force, and rather she takes her own life.
From the beginning, she seems to be escaping from the frenzy and chaos of her life. She seems to find momentary serenity at the lake house. Her solace is only temporary as the storm clouds settle in, signifying something dark ahead. The girl is confronted with the demons in her own mind which present in the embodiment of a dark stranger. She discovers that there is no escaping her own demons. Her death becomes an extension of the romanticized version of the life she was living prior to going to the lake house
Just saying

Add new comment

About text formats

Plain text

  • No HTML tags allowed.
  • Lines and paragraphs break automatically.
  • Web page addresses and email addresses turn into links automatically.