I took a writing class..oh wow, probably about a year or so ago now, and after each class we had a writing prompt. So, most of my short stories come from writing prompts. I actually write well under pressure so it was awesome for me. I think it was in that class where I busted out my best work! Now, will I ever publish these stories…? Maybe, but for right now they are in my “Novel ideas” book and…here with you all!
This prompt was “Write about what’s under your house”. So, here goes nothing.
What is under your house…?
I could always hear the whispers and could practically time when someone would stare at me because I was “that kid,” they would say. I was that kid that moved into the Halsey mansion. Of all the houses in Washington County my parents choose the one that’s rumored to be haunted.
It wasn’t like I believed in that hocus-pocus crap. It was just a house like everyone else’s. Still, there were plenty of people that stopped me and asked if I could hear Mrs. Ramirez scream when the clock struck twelve, or it was true that whenever you cut the lights off in the attic you could see the blood on the walls. None of that, by the way, was true because I searched the whole house top to bottom, by myself. There was nothing of the sort. The people of Washington County were just a bunch of scaredy cats.
My best friend Ramona believes in all of the rumors though. She’s probably been brainwashed all these years by living in Washington, but this night I was going to prove to her that she was wrong. It was 11:58PM and right after I beat Ramona in this last game of Checkers we were going to listen for the scream.
“King me!” I screamed, knocking the board over, scattering the pieces across the floor.
“No fair, you always win,” Ramona whined, pouting then crossing her arms over her chest.
“Let’s go again,” I challenged. Then I heard my watch beep. It was 12:00. She glanced up at me nervously and I could feel her straining her ears, listening for something, anything.
“I told you, doofus. My house isn’t haunted,” I said playfully swatting at her head.
“Quit it Brad. Your house is haunted.” She tosssed a checker piece at me that nicked me on my ear.
“You’re going down,” I said lunging for her. We wrestled, to my delight and surprise, for a while and then out of nowhere we heard it. A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream. Ramona clutched onto my shirt, her auburn hair whisked past my neck as she snuggled closer in fear. It smelled like..shampoo. A girly one with flowers and crap. I breathed deeply, savoring this moment, and then, like clockwork, another gut wrenching scream pierced the night.
“Brad, if you are doing this on purpose…this is not funny!” She warned, holding me closer.
Truthfully, I had no idea what was going on. I was just as scared as she was, but I was supposed to be a man, right? Not be scared? Who knows how these things work. We dashed down from the attic to an empty landing. I flipped the light switch, then power was out. I panicked.
“Come on, there are flashlights in the kitchen,” I managed to squeak out without completely bitching out.
Slowly, Ramona and I ventured down the stairs keeping our ears trained for anything besides our own two heartbeats.
We reached the kitchen and I began to rummage through the drawers. I finally found two small flashlights and before I clicked it on, another scream rang out, chilling the both of us to the bone.
“Brad…” Ramona breathed, clutching my hand. “What is under your house?”
Necole S. Ryse