AN: Obviously, there are no such things as ghosts. If there were-which there are not-that house would be a prime candidate. To hear Granny tell it, the family was cursed ever since Great-great-great-grandfather Julian came back from Chickamauga with his arm bitten off. Something about a hairy boogeyman. Nonsense, the lot of it.
SwordStitcher-That's your problem, not mine. I didn't ask for your sympathy. I don't want it. Direct it towards the Riddler. He likes the attention.
He shouldn't be up here. Granny will kill him if she catches him up in this part of the house, and so late at night, but…curiosity killed the cat.
He has never been on the third floor. He's not allowed. He doesn't know why, but he's dying to find out. Just once, and he'll never come up here again. Honest.
He lights his candle-no batteries for the flashlight-and steps into the hallway.
It's dark up here and very dusty. The little window on the far side of the hallway is cracked and dingy. That might be a mouse skeleton in that old trap.
He opens the nearest door and swallows hard. It's a nursery. Or it was, once upon a time. Now it's covered in dust. He steps inside.
The bed is unmade, with a child-sized body impression still on it. Next to it sits a very large teddy bear holding a little lamb. There's a book of fairy tales on the nightstand, along with a cobweb-covered candlestick, complete with taper.
He turns around and nearly drops his own candle. Sitting in the corner is a small, old-fashioned wheelchair, also covered in dust and webs. Something about it gives him the creeps.
He backs out of the room and goes downstairs. He's confused and frightened and he has no intention of going up there again.
That must have been Granny's brother's room, the one who died as a child. There is only one picture of him in the house, and he was sitting in that little wheelchair at the time.
He wonders if Granny might be…normal…if things had been different.
He's lying in bed, listening to the rain hammer on the roof, when there's a low squeaking sound. Mice? No, too loud. Weathervane? It's never made noise before. Granny? It's after midnight, the old bat should be asleep by now, cozy-comfy under that feather duvet.
So what the hell is making that noise?
It sounds like it's coming from upstairs and a nasty thought hits him-the wheelchair. That old, dusty wheelchair that hasn't moved in fifty years.
That's ridiculous.
Ridiculous or not, the image of the ghostly wheelchair rolling down the hall is firmly embedded in his head. Oh, well. Maybe it is the wheelchair. So what? It's up there and he's down here and it can't get him. So there.
The squeaking-it is not the wheelchair, that simply isn't possible-continues. Sometimes it gets louder, sometimes it grows fainter.
Like it's rolling up and down the hall.
No. There are no such things as ghosts. The wheelchair is still there in that dusty little room, right where it was before. It always will be there, more than likely.
So why can't he ignore the noise and go to sleep?
There's a crash of lightning and he pulls the blankets over his head. Maybe if he can't see anything, it will all stop.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Why did he have to go up there? Why couldn't he have stayed in bed, where he belonged?
He was startled up by another noise-a thudding, clumping noise as if someone was falling down the stairs. Oh, god, it knew where he was…
The noise stopped. Now the only sounds were his panicked breathing and the rain pit-pattering on the roof.
He got out of bed and poked his head out, half-expecting to see Granny. Or something else…
There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. Something had fallen downstairs or something. It was nothing.
All the same, he went back to bed and did not come out from under the covers until long after sunrise.
THE END