Haunted House

 

The sky was a bruised shade of purple as Janet walked home from her shift at the drugstore. The air was dense with the scent of approaching rain, and her thoughts drifted to nothing in particular until she noticed it: a house she had never noticed before, towering ominously on the corner of Shady Creek Lane. Its dark, eerie windows glared at her like empty eye sockets.

 

It wasn’t new, but it again, wasn’t familiar either. Janet felt an involuntary tug in her chest—a curious compulsion to approach. She hesitated at the warped wooden gate, gripping it as the wind groaned through the trees. Just a peek, she told herself.

 

The door creaked open as if it had been expecting her. Inside, the air was stale, the scent of mildew mingling with something acrid. Spider webs everywhere in the beam of her phone’s flashlight. She saw cracked wallpaper curling away from the walls, and a grand staircase that spiraled into deep darkness. The house seemed alive, its walls breathing in time with her nervous breaths.

 

As Janet stepped further in, the door slammed shut behind her. She whirled around, heart pounding, and pulled at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Her phone's battery icon blinked fatally red.

 

“Hello?” she called, her voice wavering.

 

No answer. Just the sound of floorboards creaking overhead.

 

She hurried into what appeared to be a living room. The furniture was ancient, draped in yellowed sheets. A fireplace yawned cold and empty, its soot-streaked bricks framing a pile of brittle bones. Janet’s hand flew to her mouth. Animal bones, surely, hopefully.

 

A soft, creepy giggle echoed through the room. She spun toward the sound. There, in the corner, a doll sat upright on a rocking chair. Its dead-looking porcelain face was cracked, one eye hanging loose. As Janet stared, the chair began to rock on its own.

 

“No,” Janet whispered, backing away.

 

The doll’s head twisted quickly toward her, its dangling eye swaying like a pendulum.

 

She bolted out of the room, her steps frantic. Hallways stretched unnaturally long, folding back into themselves. Every door she opened led to another corridor. Janet’s panic grew as her phone flickered and died, plunging her into total darkness.

 

“Please,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She was trapped, lost in an endless maze of shadows.

 

The house seemed to pulse with a sinister life, its very walls shifting, breathing, conspiring to trap her deeper within.

 

Her trembling hand slid along the wall for balance as she stumbled into another room. The door creaked on its hinges, revealing a dim, suffocating space. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by a single flickering bulb that barely pushed back the darkness.

 

In the corner of the room, her eyes locked onto an object that made her breath stop—a closed casket, its surface polished yet dust-covered with neglect. The sight of it sent a shiver down her spine, and instinct screamed for her to leave. But something stronger—an inexplicable curiosity—rooted her in place.

 

Janet’s legs moved as if not her own, carrying her closer to the casket. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she leaned down, her fingers trembling as they grazed the lid. It was crazy, she thought, that she was doing this. But she had to know.

 

With agonizing slowness, she pushed the lid upward. The hinges groaned, the sound sharp and grating in the heavy silence. Her breath caught in her throat as she peered inside.

 

Her own lifeless face stared back at her.

 

She recoiled, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. The face and body were unmistakably hers—down to the tear-streaked cheeks, the very clothes she was wearing. The image was so vivid, so grotesquely real, that her mind fractured under the weight of it.

 

“No,” she whispered, stumbling back. Her legs nearly gave out, and she clutched the wall for support. The casket lid slammed shut on its own with a force that rattled the room.

 

Tears blurred her vision as she fled, her footsteps frantic in the suffocating darkness. The house seemed to taunt her, its hallways elongating, doors disappearing into shadow. She didn’t know where she was going—she only knew she had to get away.

 

“Janet?”

 

The voice froze her in place, loud and clear amid the chaos.

 

She spun around to see Mark, standing a few feet away in the hallway. The beam of his flashlight cut through the oppressive gloom, illuminating his familiar face. Relief flooded her chest so suddenly she nearly collapsed.

 

“Mark,” she gasped, her voice trembling.

 

He stepped forward, steady and calm, as though the house’s horrors had no power over him. “I saw you come in here. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

 

“I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I can’t get out. It won’t let me.”

 

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said firmly, taking her arm. “We’ll get out of here together.”

 

With Mark’s guiding presence, he led her with unerring confidence. The hallways seemed to lose their sinister grip. The front door, which had earlier refused to budge, now stood ajar, swaying gently in the night breeze.

 

Outside, the cool air felt like salvation. It kissed her tear-streaked face, and Janet turned to thank Mark. But he was gone. She stared at the empty space where he had been, the house looming behind her. How was it possible? He had suddenly disappeared.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The days after her ordeal at the house on Shady Creek Lane passed in a haze for Janet. Sleep came sparingly, haunted by whispers and flickering shadows. Yet, through it all, one thought kept her grounded: Mark.

 

Though she hadn’t seen him in forever before that night, his calm presence and steady hand had saved her. She felt a deep need to thank him, to reconnect.

 

One stormy afternoon, Janet sat at her laptop, scrolling through old photos and searching for his contact information. It didn’t take long to find a news article from a local obituary page. She gasped softly as she read the headline:

 

“Mark Draven, 55, Passes After Long Illness.”

 

Her vision blurred, and a cold dread gripped her. The date of his passing was clear: two months ago.

 

“No,” Janet whispered, shaking her head as if to deny the truth. She reread the article, her heart breaking with every line. Mark had died alone but left behind a legacy of warmth and engagement towards his friends.

 

But how could that be? She saw him. She felt his hand pulling her from that nightmare of a house. She refused to believe it was a dream.

 

By evening, Janet found herself standing at Whispering Pines Cemetery. The autumn wind carried the scent of fallen leaves, and the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the headstones. She clutched a single red rose, her fingers trembling.

 

She found Mark’s grave beneath a sprawling oak tree. The marker was simple, etched with his name, dates, and a short inscription:

 

"Be a beacon of light in dark times."

 

Tears slipped down Janet’s cheeks as she knelt before the grave, placing the rose gently on Mark's gravestone. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how you were there, but you saved me, Mark."

 

A sudden warmth enveloped her, and Janet froze, her tears halting. It was as if someone had wrapped a ghostly, comforting arm around her shoulders. The wind stilled, and for a moment, the world was utterly silent.

 

She closed her eyes, her breath catching. She could feel him—Mark’s presence, steady and gentle, just as it had been in the house. A sense of peace washed over her, softening her grief.

 

When she opened her eyes, a single golden ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating his grave. The air carried the faintest scent of roses.

 

Janet rose to her feet, her heart lighter than it had been in days. As she walked back to her car, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. The grave lay still, but the warmth lingered in her chest.

 

She smiled through her tears, knowing Mark’s spirit would perhaps always be with her—watching, protecting, and reminding her that some bonds transcend even death.

 

 

-Mark Gammill  10/2024