The following is one of my short stories that I've written lately. I hope you enjoy it.



I was standing in the trees across the street from the old Douglas House sincerely regretting playing Truth or Dare with Stacy Carlson and her friends. Fallen leaves skittered across the street and they crunched dryly beneath four pairs of high-end tennis shoes that probably cost half my father’s paycheck. The girls behind me who owned those shoes snickered and called me chicken under their breath.

“Will you hurry up, Alex? We’ve been standing here for five minutes already. If you aren’t going in let’s just go back,” Stacy said coolly, obviously impatient.

I am not a scaredy-cat or a chicken or anything but the Douglas House is creepy. No one has lived in it in our living memory, but being all of sixteen that doesn’t mean a whole lot. But the rumors that surrounded the old place were at least thirty years old and dated back to when the last member of the Douglas family was killed by a burglar who was never caught. Then there were the whispers that old Douglas had killed his daughter and buried her corpse in the basement or shoved it in a trunk in the attic.

The story varied depending on who told it. The truth of the matter was that fifteen year old Susanne Douglas had vanished almost fifty years ago and was never seen or heard from again. Her mother had died of heartbreak within two years and the brother, Carl or Kurt, had joined the Army and died in Vietnam. The old man had been left alone in his large house that had slowly gone into disrepair as the man had aged and finally died.

Some people thought they saw Susanne in the window in the attic, or walking on the wide front porch, not a day over fifteen. Others heard Mrs. Douglas weeping, or old Douglas himself shouting before the crack of a gunshot when they passed by the place. And so, according to “reliable” sources the Douglas House was haunted. This made it the “dare” spot of choice for kids in town; teenagers were always being caught trying to break in to complete their dares.

Now I was supposed to walk up and see whether the place was really haunted and I wasn’t looking forward to it all that much.

“Are you going or not?” the snotty voice of the high and mighty Toniesha March asked from behind me. I really wanted to slap her. Toni was the “It” girl. Everyone in our school either wanted to be her or wanted to date her. I didn’t belong to either category, thank the stars. I pretended to ignore her… and nearly managed it.

“Want to come with or are you going to shut up?” I asked as I glowered back at Toni. We had never gotten along and I was only being subjected to this stupidity because Stacy was my friend and Stacy had been the one to give me the dare.

Headlights flashed across the trees and we all ducked as the Sheriff’s patrol car ambled past, light shining up at the Douglas House looking for trespassers. I looked down at my watch and caught the time in the moonlight; eleven-fifteen almost exactly. I smirked. “Thirty minutes until the deputy on duty tonight swings by,” I said quietly as the aging white Crown Victoria turned and headed toward the lover’s lane hot spot on the other end of town.

“You knew they were coming?” Stacy asked quietly from behind me and off to my right.

“Yep,” I said shortly as I checked to make sure my laces were tied on my old Converse shoes. “See you,” I said and then I ducked out from behind the tree I had hidden behind and quickly made my way up to the street. I paused for the shortest moment to check for cars or spying neighbors, just in case. Gravel crunched underneath the worn treads of my shoes as I ran quickly across the road and up the Douglas driveway. I ducked behind a rotting tree stump as an unexpected car drove by and I froze, closing my eyes and hoping I was mistaken for a raccoon or something.

The car didn’t even slow down.

I got up and made my way around the house, avoiding the old well I knew was there, looking at windows as I went, just in case one was open. None were, but the lock on the back door probably was not as good as the deadbolt on the front.

Why do people always go for the front door? The back door is not only usually better hidden from prying eyes, but most people don’t even think about going around checking it. Sadly, you know these types of things when your odd thief of an Uncle is your occasional babysitter.

The wooden stairs leading up to the door were rotten and I went carefully, treading lightly on the dull wood in the darkness. Another tip I’d gotten from Uncle Micah; no flashlights. If you can’t do your business in the dark, don’t do it at all.

The wood planks groaned beneath me but held as I reached for the doorknob. It was locked but it was worth a try. I pulled two hairpins out of my pocket and attacked the old worn lock with them. Micah had taught me to pick locks when he was drunk one night while babysitting. I had never actually expected to use that particular bit of knowledge, but it came in handy as I crouched in front of the old door. It took me a while, given my inexperience, but the lock came undone and I checked my watch again; eleven-thirty. Fifteen minutes until the deputy drove by.

I turned the knob and pushed on the old door. Hinges squealed and I winced as I ducked inside and pushed the door almost closed. I looked around and found myself standing in nearly two inches of dust in an old kitchen. Flowered wallpaper was peeling away from the walls where there weren’t cabinets hanging. One of the doors beneath the sink had lost a hinge and hung off-kilter offering a glimpse of rusting pipe in the shadows. An old faux gold and crystal light fixture dangled on wires from the ceiling, copper showing through rotting insulation. It swayed slightly with the motions of the old house and I made sure to walk where it couldn’t fall on my head. Toni would never come looking for me if I were to get hurt; chicken.

The dust cushioned my footsteps as I slowly made my way to the front of the house. Dark paneled wood with elegant carving lined the hall leading to the front door; it had probably been gorgeous in days gone by. I passed what was probably at one time a dining room; table and chairs long gone and most likely sold or auctioned off. The curtains had probably once been lace but moths or mold had them tattered and hanging by threads.

A closed door that probably led to the basement was on my left in the hall as I continued. I could see fading in the peeling paper above the paneling where family portraits had probably hung above some kind of accent table. I could practically see the table, a lamp sitting on it hung with a red beaded shade. I pushed aside that idle amusement and kept going toward the front door. A parlor or sitting room was on my right through a wide opening opposite the stairs. I could see doors would slide out of the wall to conceal the room from visitors if need be.

A tall, dark newel post with a carving of an angel on top graced the bottom of the stairs leading up a short way to a landing before turning and going up to the second story. The stairs looked solid and untarnished by rot but my dare had only been to go inside and see if the place was haunted. So far, nothing struck me as particularly ghostly and I checked my watch. Eight minutes until deputy-do-right drove by.

I could unlock the front door and stroll outside without a care and likely make it back to the trees before the deputy came and then go back to Stacy’s and smirk at Toni the Twit for the rest of the night.

I was smiling to myself and reaching for the lock, intending to do just that, when the temperature dropped forty degrees. My breath came out in a fog. Motion on the stairs caught my attention and my eyes widened as I sucked in air and watched an angry old man with a shotgun come stomping down the stairs… But his steps made no noise.

I stared, stunned, unable to move or scream as the old man raised his shotgun and swung it at my head. I ducked and fell back on my ass. I crab-walked away from him and realized that in the place where I had been standing a girl roughly my height slumped against the door, blood covering one side of her face, dripping steadily onto a formerly white nightgown.

Abruptly the man and the shotgun vanished and the girl wavered in place, changed. Instead of the nightgown she now wore a light sundress, an open coat, and saddle shoes; she carried a small suitcase. One side of her face was covered in a blotchy blackish-purple bruise; an inch long gash on her temple in the middle of the bruise was barely scabbed over. She unlocked the door and pulled it open quietly. On the porch stood a young man with dark hair in overalls and a flannel coat. Concern was etched in the features of the young man’s face as he took her suitcase and then her hand. She stepped out into the night, the darkness enveloping them, concealing them from sight.

Then the door was closed again and I could hear weeping; heart-wrenching, miserable sobs that carried down from upstairs. Then the door swung open and the old man stomped into the house, slamming the door behind him. The sobs upstairs were quickly stifled. A second later I heard a low voice behind me that said, “Bastard.”

My heart jolted and I whipped my head toward the voice and saw a young man with light brown hair and angry eyes seated at a table in the dining room. I was sprawled in the dust, looking through half-visible furniture and I realized the young man was around my age, maybe a little older. He seemed to have a pile of school books in front of him, a pencil in one hand, the eraser chewed down to a nub.

And then he was gone and galumphing footsteps were coming down the stairs. It was the young man again, a few years older, wearing a green-brown uniform, a duffle bag with his possessions inside slung over his shoulder. He whipped the door open and stormed out of the house. And I knew he was the son who would die in Vietnam.

Light flashed across my vision, coming in through the stringy curtains at the front of the house, drawing my attention away from the specters that had appeared and disappeared before my eyes. Deputy Cunningham was doing his patrol. I had been sprawled on the floor in dust and dirt for at least eight minutes watching the ghosts of the Douglas House parade past me. I got the message.

I waited only a minute for the deputy to finish and then I crawled to my feet and unlocked the door. I paused for a moment more as I glimpsed headlights turning off toward lover’s lane again, and I looked back into the house. It was empty, but it didn’t feel that way.

“I didn’t mean to bother you. My friend Stacy dared me to come in. I’ll be going now,” I said quietly and then I pulled open the door and walked outside covered in dust. The deputy was gone. I closed the door and walked down the stairs and along the driveway dusting myself off. I figured dust was coming off of me in waves as I crossed the street calmly and found my friends staring at me dumbstruck as I met them in the trees. “What?”

Toni, her French manicured hand shaking violently, pointed behind me. I looked and found the lights of the house on, the door I had just closed standing open. A pale shade of Susanne Douglas stood with one hand raised in a silent wave. As soon as I looked, she smiled and then just disappeared.
Toni and the two other girls, Cynthia and Bridget, screamed and turned, running into the trees, tripping over themselves to get away from the house and possibly even me.

Stacy had not screamed and now she stood looking at me, surprised, and I thought I knew why. I dusted off my hands and attempted to get more dust off my jeans. “What do you say we go back to your house and watch movies?” I asked a slight smile on my face. Stacy smiled back at me widely and the two of us walked off through the trees, the Douglas House ablaze with light behind us.

Back in Stacy’s house after everyone else had gone to sleep, I rose quietly from my sleeping bag and went into the living room and over to the table where the Carlson’s kept their family photos. I found a picture of Stacy’s Grandmother Susan Carlson with her husband, his red-brown hair starting to go white. Just visible on Mrs. Carlson’s temple was a thin inch long scar, and I grinned. “Rest in Peace, Mrs. Carlson,” I said quietly and returned to Stacy’s bedroom to sleep.

It’s been years since I set foot in the Douglas House or even really thought of my night there. Since then the only ghostly visions seen by townsfolk have been those of Old Man Douglas, shotgun in hand, stomping about the house angry at those who have passed away in peace.

A FrankieBGoode Creation
******

Constructive criticism is welcome and very much desired. Please and Thank You ahead of time for reading.

__________________
frankiebgoode