AN: Written while listening to Midnight Syndicate's The 13th Hour. I guess growing up in a Halloween shop will mess with you a little…
SwordStitcher-YOU MONSTER! Yes. Every Mark I have ever met needed a smack upside the head. And I always liked 'Breathe' best, myself. So pretty. So creepy.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-I hold you responsible for the torment she now puts me through. ALL OF IT. Even that time you thought Kitty was... Be quiet or I'll take the pills again. Ha.
KittyComeHere-I'm always here. Jonny just doesn't let me out in case I start sharing the embarrassing moments. You will. Yup! Who needs embarrassing parents when you have me?
The old house has stood there, empty, for at least fifteen years. Apparently it was decaying for longer than that, but finally the boy that lived there had left-gone off to college or some such nonsense-and let it fall to rack and ruin.
These days, it's rumoured to be haunted. They say an old woman with a heavy cane wanders the halls and that late at night, you can hear a child crying. It's become a game to see how close you can get to the front porch.
Nobody has ever gone inside.
Until now.
Jessica Hart, sixteen year-old daughter of Ryan and Isabella Hart, stands on the front porch, her hand resting on the door handle. She snuck out after a fight with her parents.
She's been here many times, but never inside. She's only ever been out in the rotting cornfield. There's an old chapel out there, but she's never been inside. Crows nest there and she doesn't want to make them mad.
But now…she can't go home, but the rain has started to fall. Besides, it's just an old house. Dusty and dirty, no doubt, but there's no such things as ghosts. It's probably locked, though…
There's a rumble of thunder and she twists the knob. It catches for a second before giving and the old wooden door swings open for the first time in too long.
The hall is dusty. There's an old rug on the floor that might have been red at one time. Now it's grey with dust and there are holes all over it.
Old portraits of people long since dead line the walls, their unblinking gazes making her feel very uneasy. Why would anyone leave a place like this? Yeah, the pictures are creepy, but they could be taken down.
A gust of wind slams the door and the hallway is plunged into darkness. She makes her way further inside, into a sitting room with wide windows. The windows are cracked.
The room is circular, with plush couches and armchairs sprinkled throughout. There's an empty wine glass and an old, old bible on a table by a loveseat. God…it looks like whoever lived here just left.
He had left, hadn't he? He hadn't been murdered or something? Although that would be sort of tragically romantic…a young lord, cut down in the prime of his life…maybe he haunts the house.
She goes back into the hall and up the stairs. So far, she hasn't seen anything. No ghosts, no dead mice, no nothing. There isn't even a moth in here. It really does feel like someone was just here.
Most of the doors are closed, but a few are open. One leads to what must have been a nursery, and another leads to a small, barren room that looks out at the cornfield. She can see the rotting cross that once held a scarecrow from here.
The final open door leads to a plush bedroom. The bed is neatly made and the drapes are tucked aside like someone had opened them to let in the light. Outside, the rain begins to fall.
There's an old photograph lying face down on the dresser of an old woman and a young boy with bright blue eyes. The woman looks relaxed, carefree. The boy…does not.
There's a noise in the hall-footsteps?-and she sets the picture down and goes out to look. There's no one there.
She's about to go back into the room when a voice says, "Good afternoon, child."
She spins around, her sneakers upsetting the rug. Not five feet from her is a tall, thin man with cold blue eyes.
"Well, well, what have we here?" A small smile flickers over his face but doesn't meet his eyes. "A trespasser."
Hey! He isn't supposed to be here, either, so there.
"This house has been empty for years." she says, her voice only a little shaky. "What are you doing in here, looting it?" She points to the book in his hands.
He smiles again, a proper one this time, and shakes his head very slowly.
"I've only come back to collect what's mine."
His?
The boy, the boy who left and never come back…what was his name?
"I-I…"
"You, on the other hand, are not supposed to be here. I suppose it's my own fault for leaving the door unlocked, but I hadn't expected the nosey townsfolk to come in." The smile turns bitter. "Some things never change."
There'd been something about him…they said he was insane…but…
"Why are you here, child?" he continues, beginning to close the little distance between them. "What possessed you to come inside? Curiosity? Vandalism? A mixture of the two?"
"I-it was raining, and I…"
"I don't believe that to be a very good excuse, do you?" His eyes…something's wrong with his eyes. "No matter. I know how to deal with little brats like you."
She runs, runs down the stairs and tries not to hear him whistling Three Blind Mice.
Where to go, where to go…this way?
It's only when she sees the plush chairs and the old bible that she realizes that she's gone the wrong way. He's down the stairs now, though, and she knows he knows she didn't leave.
She dives behind a couch and holds her breath, trying not to sneeze and hoping to God that he doesn't come in here.
"You can't hide from me, child." he says from the doorway. "I grew up in this house, and there is nowhere to hide."
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to cry and hoping that he'll go away.
Her wish is granted. One long, torturous minute later he leaves, whistling Ring Around the Roses.
She waits another minute to make sure he's left before creeping out from behind the couch and running towards the front door. She flings it open, her hands slick with sweat, and rushes down the front steps.
He's waiting for her, still smiling that cold, polite smile.
"Leaving so soon?"
She screams and dashes around the house, into the cornfield. He follows her, his pace as relaxed as if he was taking a Sunday stroll.
The field has been dead for a long time, but the stalks are still tall and she crashes into them, clawing them blindly out of her path and trying not to stab an eye out.
There! The old chapel, the one that the crows nest in. She'll hide in there.
The wooden door sticks and won't budge and for one horrible minute she thinks she's trapped but then
FWOOM!
She's inside.
The ceiling has fallen in and the remains of a wooden cross lie on the floor. She eases the door closed and looks around. There are no crows here right now-come to think of it, she hasn't seen any all afternoon-and she breathes a sigh of relief.
She slumps against the wall, breathing hard, and feels something under her butt. Ow! What is that?
She rummages around and feels her fingers hit something hard and smooth. She draws it out and promptly flings it away from her with a small cry.
That was a human femur.
There is a body in here with her.
She hears him whistling outside and shrinks against the wall and tries not to breathe or think about the…gulp…the bones.
London Bridge stops abruptly and she dares breathe a sigh of relief. He's leaving. He's going back to the house, maybe, or out to search the field.
There's a low, steady, creeaak as the door opens and a ray of dim sunlight splashes across the floor.
"Oh, there you are!" He sounds rather surprised. "I must say, this has to be a first-someone looking for shelter in this place." He closes the door and leans against it, looking at her. He sees the bone and chuckles softly. "You've met Granny, I see."
"G-Granny?"
He nods.
"My dear great-grandmother. Very pious. Very insane. Very dead, obviously." His features twist into a look of utter hatred for a moment before going back to that playfully neutral expression. "I put her here one night. Threw her in and let the crows tear her apart. Do you know what it's like to be attacked by birds?"
She shakes her head, feeling a few tears slide down her face.
"No." she whispers. "I'm sorry, I don't know."
"It's not very pleasant. They scratch and they rip and they tear into you with those sharp beaks and long talons. And all you can see is a wall of black feathers." He points to one such feather on the floor. "And their caws…let me tell you, you don't want them to be angry with you."
"I-I…"
"Not a pleasant way to go, is it?"
"No."
He pushes himself off the doors and stands in front of her. She should kick out, like her mother always tells her she should, but she can't. She's too scared to even breathe. All she can do is sit here and shake like her biology teacher's Chihuahuas.
"Oh, you are afraid." He sounds delighted. "Very good. You should be."
She turns her head away from him and hopes that this will turn out to be a bad dream.
His hands-surprisingly warm-brush against her throat before suddenly moving to her head and twisting.
She will never be found.
THE END