A Neo-Gothic Birthday Tale, Part I

On January 17, 1895, there was an odd knocking upon the Doowell family's door followed by a horse whinnying and then galloping away. Instead of the brass knocker sounding thrice, young Agnes Doowell heard one bang, which made her almond eyes stretch widely and sent her small caramel hand clutching the ivory lace bodice of her navy-blue floral dress. The knock commenced again. "Oh, why can't Papa be here?" she asked herself, but her father would not arrive home from the Eastman Kodak factory for another two hours. She remembered how her papa had chided her recently to stop jumping at her own shadow. This was while they were strolling toward the semifrozen Erie Canal the sunny morning after New Year's Day.
"You are my brave girl, soon to turn 11 years old," he had told her. "In due time, my dearest, you will need to put away your porcelain dolls and other playthings."
"Never, Papa, because I want to be a child forever," she had replied.
"My silly Agnes, we all must grow older, 'til that day comes that the Grim Reaper knocks just once," he had said, followed by booming laughter that threatened to break up the canal's remaining sheets of ice.
Just as on that gelid morning by her father's side, Agnes leapt within her skin and her blood ran cold. She shooed aside her papa's morbid sense of humor and summoned her new, tween courage. Almost on tiptoes, she made her way to the front room's window and its crimson drapes with white cotton curtains. Peeling back a curtain panel, she pressed her rootbeer eyes close to the chilly windowpane. Suddenly three large gray orbs appeared, pressed against the glass.
Agnes shrieked, releasing the curtain. She spun around and noticed that the hallway was enlongating a yard at a time 'til it began throbbing louder than her heartbeat. She tried closing her eyes, but they refused to shut. She attempted to scream again, but her voice was silent. Without looking behind her, she headed toward the kitchen, now seeming a mile away, and the carpet was shifting left and right. "Am I in the haunted house at Niagara Falls?" she pondered. "Papa!" she wanted to yell, but any desired sound from her body was suppressed.
In the kitchen, where her sainted mother was mixing batter for her birthday cake, the volume of a radio broadcast was set at hellish decibels. Now Agnes felt as if she were on a conveyor belt. Just a few more footsteps and -- she slipped and fell into an abyss as if fainting.
"Agnes, Agnes," her mother said, shaking her gently from slumber. "Darling, dreaming again? You must awaken. After all, today is your birthday."
"Mama, am I really alive? Did you see the huge, triple eyeballs at the window?" Agnes asked, trembling.
"Oh, Agnes! Now, now, you must stop reading your papa's Gothic novels," her mother admonished. "Look, my child, get washed up and dressed. I must finish preparing our breakfast. Oh, and a package was left at the door minutes ago. It must be a birthday gift for you."
"Uhhh, from whom, Mama?" Agnes inquired, her eyes enlarging as in her nightmare.
"Maybe from Papa. You know how he loves to surprise his little girl," her mother said with her pinched eyes crinkling -- eyes that caught her father's eye when she barely was out of her teens, or so he had related to Agnes.
"Okay, Mama, I'll get ready now," Agnes promised.
"With haste, or no birthday cake later," her mother warned.
"Oh, maaaama, it's a Saturday," Agnes whined before stubbornly climbing out of bed and traipsing to the white clawfoot tub.
Two hours later, the latter half spent with her mama at the breakfast table -- at its center, a china platter piled high with flapjacks -- Agnes sat at the coffee table, tapping her fingertips like a pianist and spying the curtain with her peripheral vision. She was wearing the dress that her mother sewed in November: navy-blue with yellow flowers on long orange stems. Spread on the coffee table was the newspaper that her papa had been reading before leaving for work. How she wished he did not have to rush off so early every day. Their only mornings together as a family were on Sundays.
Among the classified ads was a bulky present in purple wrapping paper. To its right sat Agnes' German porcelain dolly, Helga, a Christmas gift from her paternal grandparents in London, Ontario, where they escaped after her Bavarian grandpa had immigrated to Virginia and fallen in love with a freedwoman. They often would travel to the old country, where grandpa maintained business ties.
"Agnes, please wait 'til your papa gets home before you open your gift!" Mama yelled from the kitchen, where she was mixing ingredients for a bonnie butter cake. Sometimes Agnes wondered if her mother was clairvoyant-at-will.
"Ohhh, Mama, I can't wait. Please, let me open it now," the birthday girl pleaded.
Just then, there was one, loud knock at the door.
[To be continued ...]
(c) 2024 Gabriela
Thank you for viewing my video.🏵
#mysteryandsuspense #tale #neogothic #birthdaygift

[@P.Brocklehurst]

Engrossing read, I'm intrigued to know what happens next in the story. Who could be knocking at the door, I wonder 🤔 🚪

[@gabrielapaulinho1luv]

Thank you for enjoying this video and micro-short story.😊 Please read on and watch "what develops."

[@P.Brocklehurst]

@@gabrielapaulinho1luv You're welcome and I certainly will read on in the next video ☺️