Uninvited- short story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short horror story, possibly the beginning of a longer work.

Submitted: January 24, 2012

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Submitted: January 24, 2012

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Tim pulled hard on the board across the door, the nails making a screeching noise as they finally came free.  The plank was thrown to the grass to join the other three.  The glazed part of the door had been smashed, and Tim took care not to cut himself as he pushed the door, gently at first, then with a bit more meaning.  The air was cold, it was not long since Christmas.  This time last year there’d been at least a foot of snow- he remembered how the school had been shut, extending the holiday by another week.  No such luck this year.

The door moved, it was tight against the door frame, warped after years of neglect.  Tim pushed a little harder, not wanting to hurry inside, but also not wanting the door to give too quickly and send him sprawling. The ground looked filthy, his mum would kill him if he came back with his new clothes ruined.  The wood flexed under his pressure, the glass on the floor inside catching against the bottom of the door, making another loud noise.  Tim looked around, although the moon was out it was almost pitch black on this side of the house.  He half expected to see Gary and Robert in the shadows, laughing at him, but if they were there he couldn’t make them out.

“Stupid dare,” Tim muttered, “I don’t even want to be in their stupid gang”.  He felt in his thin jacket pocket for his torch.  He’d asked his dad for one with LED bulbs for Christmas; they were the best sort, really good beam.  Instead his dad had got him some cheap one, it took four batteries that he’d had to take out of other toys in order to use it.  Dad was too busy with his new girlfriend and their baby to worry about what he wanted.  Tim sniffed.  “Don’t sniff, blow your nose”, he mimicked his mum telling him off, then sniffed louder.  He looked around again, just in case his mum was watching.  He shrugged.  Turning on the torch, Tim edged his way around the partially open door.

The hallway stood before him, empty of all furniture.  There was a staircase directly in front of him, a doorway stood open to his left, and two doors were on his right, both closed.  He thought about exploring the rooms, but decided against it.  The dare was to go to the bedroom at the back of the house, get the ‘trophy’ from the wardrobe, and then get out again, meet Gary and Robert by the chip shop in order to be ‘initiated’ into their gang.  He had no idea what the ‘trophy’ would be, probably one of Gary’s dad’s magazines- he’d seen Gary with them, full of naked women.  The house had been deserted for years now, so he’d be looking for something out of place.  He tried not to think of the rumours and stories he’d heard about the house, about the murders and the suicide. About the hauntings.  He was too old for such nonsense, he told himself, he’d be a teenager this year.

Tim took a deep breath, better get it over with, he told himself.  He took a step towards the stairs.  Something creaked.  Tim stood still, ears straining. Nothing.  He waited.  Still nothing.  He shone the torch at the ground, noticing the footprints in the dust.  He placed his own foot alongside on of the footprints.  Similar size, he thought, must be Robert.  Gary had feet like a girl, he sniggered.  He swung the torch beam to the stairs, and started to climb. 

The stairs creaked, the carpet threadbare and damp, his shoes making a slapping sound like when the washing machine had overflowed and the downstairs carpet had got wet.  He reached the first landing, the stairs turning to the right.  He daren’t touch the banister- who knew what germs would be on it.  He turned the torch up toward the ceiling, he could see the holes in the plasterboard where the water had come through.  He could see the blackness of the attic beyond- no features, just the black yawning space.  He shone the torch back to the stairs, best not think about the attic.  He never went into the attic at home, there was no light and no floorboards.  He wasn’t scared, he told himself, it was just not safe.  His mum had told him a story about his uncle,  how he’d stepped on the plasterboard and nearly come through the ceiling, his legs dangling through the hole.  Mum had cried with laughter at that story.  Tim could see the funny side, but didn’t want to be the one being laughed at.

He had reached the top of the stairs when he heard the noise again.  He twisted the torch left and right, the thin beam barely making any difference in the darkness.  It felt like it was closing in on him.  Again, he strained his ears to pick up the sound.  “Gary?  Is that you?  Robert?  It’s not funny”.  His voice sounded wobbly, he shouldn’t show any fear.  “If it is you, I’ll f*cking kill you!”  He didn’t swear often, his mum had given him such a slap last time he’d said something rude, he just needed to relieve the tension.  The sound had stopped.
Tim stood for a second, getting his bearings.  The front of the house was to his right, the corridor ran front to back so the bedroom he was after must be to the left.  The walls were damp, water seemed to be running in rivulets down them, soaking the carpet even more.  He took a step to the left, towards the door at the far end.  The torch flickered, Tim gave it a thump and the light shone brightly again. 

He could feel  something, it was a strange sensation to Tim, not like you could put your hand out and really touch it, but he could feel it just the same.  As he got closer to the bedroom it felt... heavier, like the air was denser, the carpet seemed to be dragging his feet.  Tim shook his head, just being daft, he told himself.  Was the door open?  When he’d looked before he’d been sure it was closed.  There was no wind.  He’d got it wrong, obvioulsy.  Just to be on the safe side, he called out again. “Rob? Gary?  I’ve got a knife here, so don’t p*ss me about, ok?”  That should do it, he thought.

He stood on the threshold of the room, a lump in his throat, the hair on his arms crackling against the fabric of his sleeves.  He felt the darkness behind him, felt obliged to take that final step into the room, felt the door close behind him.  He couldn’t move, he could feel his heart racing, faster than he’d ever felt before.  The torch flickered again, he didn’t have the strength in his arms to shake it, to get that one last burst of light from it.  The blackness crept up on him, nearer and nearer, the cold seeping into his skin, his flesh, his bones. 

The noise made him turn, the sound coming from the far corner,  behind the door.  He could make out the chair laying on its side.  His gaze was drawn higher.  He could hear the sound clearly now, a creaking noise, back and forth, back and forth.  Tim became aware of movement in the dark, no, it was the dark itself, shifting back and forth.  As Tim stared into the blackness the shape emerged, a blackness darker than that surrounding it, the sound becoming louder.  Tim’s bladder emptied as he looked at the figure, a rope around its neck, swinging back and forth, creaking as the rope rubbed against the hook in the ceiling.  Suddenly, the swinging stopped.  The figures eyes snapped open, two points of white light boring into Tim’s soul. The blackness was complete. Tim’s lips parted, and the last thing he did was scream.

 

Robert grabbed hold of Gary’s arm as they made their way towards the house. “You hear that?”, he asked, his eyes wide with fright. Gary shrugged. “Probably nothing”, he said, grateful that Robert had mentioned it first.  “Anyway, do we really want that little mummy’s boy in our gang?  Let’s forget it, if he does turn up he’ll spend hours trying to find this”, he motioned to the magazine rolled up in his back pocket. “Let’s go and get some chips”.


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