Continued from last week's post, September Hauntings: Spooky Stories with M.L. Bullock
You lose your footing momentarily but steady yourself by grabbing the closest small pine tree. The footsteps stop behind you and you can’t resist looking as you put your free hand up to fend off the potential attacker but there is no one there. With a shocked gasp you continue to run down the road. Despite the chilliness of the afternoon you feel sweat popping out on your forehead. Why do you feel so sick?
“Burly! Get back here!” You know the dog can’t hear you, he’s too far ahead. In fact, you notice his barking has stopped altogether. You find yourself in front of the house. You pace the road and stare at the place, dread fills your heart. No, your soul. You want nothing more than to be away from here. You wouldn’t go in that house for a sack of money or anything else.
“Burly!” You call again but he’s not answering. You think you hear him whimper, the sound comes from the depths of the house. Yes, he’s in there. What should you do? Go home and call someone? That seems a ridiculous thing to do. You’re a grown woman and you’re not afraid of the dark or things under the bed. At least, not since you were a kid. When you were a kid you were afraid of everything. Halloween, dark corners under the stairs, Aunt Rita’s basement. Why was it that this house brought all those childish fears back? There wasn’t anything special about it. Not really. A dilapidated, two-story Victorian with broken windows, missing paint and a porch that looked like it would fall in at any moment. Not scary at all.
“Burly! I’m not calling you again!” You threaten as you hear him answer with a troubled bark. Yes, he was definitely inside the house.
You pace a few more seconds and then unzip your jacket a bit. You left your phone behind and who was to say you would get a signal on this lonely road? That wasn’t an option.
Steeling your nerves, you pick up a stick, just in case there are predators hiding inside. You whack the stick in the palm of your hand to make sure it’s not rotten. It’s solid. Not much protection but at least it’s something. Maybe it will help you if you encounter an angry rodent.
But you know there are ghosts in there…you can feel it. Your stick won’t help you with the ghosts.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, you say to yourself. You could go home and call the neighbor. You really shouldn’t trespass on someone else’s property. Right? That’s the responsible thing to do.
The leaves stir behind you. Those footsteps have returned. You aren’t looking back again. No, not again. You step into the yard and approach the porch. With measured movements you move up each step until you are standing in front of the open door.
“Burly? Come here, boy.” You hold the stick tightly. Your mouth feels dry as you push the door open. It groans as it sags awkwardly on the rusty hinge.
“Please…Burly,” you whisper with one last hope that you won’t have to go inside. Maybe he’ll answer you this time. Be a good boy, Burly, you think but he does not come.
That’s when you feel two hands shove you and you fall into the house.
Are you scared yet? Leave me a comment below!