House Down the Street

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short 'horror' story. It's not really scary. But it's my first scary story that i've ever written, and i like it so.. please read it?

Submitted: April 28, 2013

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Submitted: April 28, 2013



Blake and Mike walked up the cracked driveway of the abandoned house, glancing around every now and then to make sure nobody… or no thing… was watching them.
They could feel eyes on them every time they took a step, could feel a growing sense of dread, getting stronger the closer they got to the house.
‘Dude, are you sure? I mean…’
‘You’re not scared are you?’ Blake asked him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Come on. It’s either this or you pay me twenty bucks, chicken.’ He laughed, but his eyes showed his uneasiness.
‘I am not a chicken. And you are not getting twenty bucks out of me.’ Josh walked up to the front door and took a deep breath.
Blake had challenged him to this, said he couldn’t do it. He had challenged him that he couldn’t last ten minutes in this creepy old house, abandoned years ago when, supposedly, a kid around the age of five or six died here of Typhus during some war. He said that he was too chicken to stay in the house for more than five minutes. And nobody told him what he could or couldn’t do. And Blake knew that. That was the very reason he had said it.
‘Well? You gonna knock any time this year?’
'Shut up.' Mike muttered. He knocked on the rotting door, as if there would be anybody behind it.
'Open it.' Drake urged him on.
'Isn't that trespassing?' Mike asked uncertainly.
'Not if nobody owns it.'
Mike gently pushed open the door, the floorboards creaking under his feet.
There were thick cobwebs in the corners of the room.
They could hear mice scurrying across the floors above them, running from the door that hadn't been opened in years.
'Dude. This place is creepy.' Drake whispered.
'Yeah.' Mike whispered back.
They waited a few seconds in the shadows of the room that must've been a living room at one point.
There were faded pictures on the wall, and the chairs and couch were covered in dust.
'Hey. This place isn't too bad.' Drake put his hands on his hips and smiled. 'It only needs a little cleaning up. The windows definitely need to be cleaned, and we could take down all those old pictures on the walls and we could make this place into our own clubhouse.'
'Take the pictures down?'
That just seemed... wrong to Mike.
'Well, yeah. Why would we keep them?'
'That just doesn't sound like a good idea, man. I don't think we should.. Drake?' Mike turned around to an empty room. 'Drake? Dude where'd you-' The front door slammed shut.
Mike ran over to it and started trying to pull it back open, but it was locked.
'Drake! Dude! This isn't funny! Let me out!'
He ran over to the window and started pounding on it.

On the outside, the windows looked cracked and weak. But on the inside, you realized just how strong the glass really was.

He looked around frantically for a baseball bat or a metal bar of something to break the window with. He was going to kill Drake when he got out of here.

He heard a footstep behind him, and spun around to see- nobody. But he had heard a footstep. He had heard somebody walking behind him.

He ran to the next room, looking for a back door or an open window. It was freezing in the house now, and he could see the curtains floating back and forth.

So there had to be a breeze. Which meant an opening. Right?

He looked around the room for windows, then stepped in something wet as he took a step back.

Mike looked down at the floor, finding he was standing in a pool of dark red liquid.

‘What the… holy!’ He turned to see his best friend, Drake, lying on the floor, his head split open.

He was muttering incomprehensibly, his eyes closed.

‘Drake! Then who shut the door?’ He asked himself as he picked his bleeding friend up off the floor, dragging him back to the front door.

He heard a child giggling, somewhere around a corner.

Drake sat up quickly. ‘We’ve gotta get out of here. Th-that kid… he’s evil! Open the door! Open the door!’

Mike could hear the fear and pain in his friend’s voice, and he knew for a fact he had never seen his friend so scared in all the years he’d known him.

Mike started pushing on the door once again, throwing all his weight against it. The door started to crack under his weight, and it finally gave way, just as the giggling was getting even louder.

He grabbed his friend and dragged him after him, dragging him as he ran.

He never once looked back as they stumbled along. He didn’t want to know what was behind him.

He just ran.

Once they were safe back at Drake’s house, Drake passed out. His mother screamed and rushed him to a hospital, where he got several stitches.

When asked what had happened, both of them just shook their heads back and forth vigorously. Drake and Mike never spoke of the house except in hushed whispers, and straight out ran whenever they had to pass by the house. Nobody else really understood why the two were so afraid of it, of that lonely abandoned house that was falling to peices.

Mike sat at home, talking to Drake over the phone. It had been two weeks since the incident, and Drake's mother hardly let him out of the house anymore. Mike had his computer powered up, and was searching through the records of unnatural deaths or murders that had occurred in the nieghborhood, or in the surrounding area. So far, he had come up with nothing. Finally, he stumbled across one unnatural death. It was of a little boy, four years old. It was the year 1967, and the kid had been left alone in the house with his drunk father. In a rage, the father killed his son with a sharp blow to the head with a hatchet. Mike relayed this information to his friend, who remained silent long after Mike hung up the phone and went to bed. Drake ran his hand through his hair, gently touching his stitches. He hadn't told Mike, but the doctor had told Drake's mother that his wound was very similar to a minor blow to the head with a hatchet.  

© Copyright 2017 Cornelia Finn. All rights reserved.

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