Flash fiction: Whoosh

This is the story I wrote on Valentine’s Day and decided it just did not suit the mood.


“It was a hay loft, sweetheart,” her mother said. “The old lady who used to live here kept hay up there to feed her cows.”

“But it’s empty now,” the child said. “And I hear things.”

“It used to be a hay loft,” her mother said patiently, “so there were lots of small animals lived in it.” She smiled encouragingly. “Dormice, you know, like in Alice in Wonderland.”

The girl shook her head. “It’s not mice. It’s a big whooshing noise. And it’s angry.”

The sound of the TV wafted through to the child’s bedroom. Audience laughter, applause. The woman shuffled her feet, and the gesture of stroking her daughter’s hair became more brusque. She looked over her shoulder at the light from the screen playing on the hallway wall, reminding her that she was missing the show. The child watched her stoically, knowing her mother had stopped listening or caring. She expected no more, just a brief smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“If the mice bother you tonight,” she said, pecking the dark gold hair that lay across her daughter’s brow, “we’ll see about getting you a kitten.”


The quick smile flashed again.

“We’ll see. Now go to sleep.”

The child didn’t smile and she didn’t go to sleep. Not straight away. She tried not to think about the kitten because she didn’t believe in it. She’d been promised a cat ever since she first complained about the noises upstairs. Her mother didn’t like cats. She rolled on her side so she could see the door and the bright strip of light from the hallway. The TV laughter rolled into the room in waves of irritating jollity but she wasn’t listening. She was waiting for the whooshing to start.

The child didn’t know why there was so much anger upstairs in the house. She didn’t know what had happened to the old lady who used to live there, nor had she ever tried to understand what her parents argued about in low voices when she was in bed. What was important was the whooshing noise and why it was angry.

She must have slept because when she opened her eyes again, the strip of light had gone and the TV was silent. The countryside was full of furtive night noises, and the house answered in its own language of creaks and sighs. The child listened for the other sound, the sound that was wrong.

It started above her head. She imagined someone waving a bed sheet, flapping it to get the creases out. It was a comforting thought but not a convincing one. She sat up and felt around for her slippers.

The attic door was just opposite her bedroom door. She wasn’t supposed to open it. The stairs weren’t safe, her mother said. But she knew the step with the broken board, and she skipped over it. It was dark. The air was in movement, a whirring, vibrating movement, and it was probably filled with dust motes if there had been any light to see by. She stood on the edge of the big empty room where hay still drifted. The shutters on all the windows were tight closed except where something had pushed one open. A pane was missing in that window, and she could see the stars through the opening, clear and bright.

She listened. The air trembled. She didn’t know if she was frightened, or if she ought to be frightened. The anger was something she understood, something she shared. It wanted to be let out. The shadows moved and the slow, heavy whooshing began again, louder, rushing towards her. She held her breath and stood back from the stair. The mass of shadow flew past her, scratching her face, or was it stroking? A sensation like clawed feathers, a pungent smell of blood and animal, the noise that should not be, tumbled down the stairs.

She sat on the step and waited as the anger filled the sleeping house and dug impossible claws deep into the walls.

When the house had soaked up all the fractured sounds, and the noise that shouldn’t be had fallen silent, she skipped over the broken step and slipped back into bed. A brown feather floated onto her pillow. She held it tight in her fist as she drifted off to sleep.



Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

23 thoughts on “Flash fiction: Whoosh”

  1. The last paragraph is perfect.
    I liked the description of the shutters and window: “shutters on all the windows were tight closed except where something had pushed one open. A pane was missing in that window, and she could see the stars through the opening, clear and bright.”
    Teases the reader is that “clear and bright” ahead for the child, the promise of the anger leaving, or escape for the owl.
    “waited as the anger filled the sleeping house and dug impossible claws deep into the walls.”
    Nicely done

    1. Thank you! I have a thing about this attic. It’s a nice attic, nothing creepy about it at all. And I like owls. But something drives me to add a jarring element. Just one. Glad you like it.

  2. I really enjoyed this …. the creeping menace was just sufficient to keep me engaged. I am phobic of birds (I love to see them at a distance but if they come towards me I drop like a stone and quiver like jelly) so it is my highest praise that I even started let alone finished the story with it’s psycho-owl picture 🙂

      1. It’s interesting how we niggle fear like a tooth abcess …. I think it is a part of childhood that doesn’t ever quite leave us 🙂

      2. I have a ludicrous habit when on my own of scaring myself with pictures of religeous imagery (the ghastly Mary’s rank high – particularly the one at le Puy en Velay) and reading about them and then going to bed. I don’t sleep and the knife certainly sounds like a good addition 🙂

      3. Now that is one thing that would never occur to me. Having grown up surrounded by bleeding hearts, crowns of thorns, blood oozing from open wounds, and all the female mutilations the ancient pagans thought up for good Christian girls, I’m a bit blasée about holy pictures.

        Date: Wed, 17 Feb 2016 16:01:39 +0000 To: jane.dougherty@dbmail.com

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