So… This is a story I have written. It’s based around a kinda creepy house from my paper round, that kinda looks like it could be haunted.
My friends have said this is disturbing so… Um… Sorry?
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Vaguely near where you love is a building. It’s not big or small, not pretty or ugly, but it is old. Not so old that it has been left to fall into disrepair, left to the mercy of the elements. But old enough that it does seem to need renovation.
Oh, you recognise it?
You have never seen anyone go inside and you’re never seen anyone come out, either. Yet every morning you still deliver papers there. Every morning you walk down that overgrown, dark, damp walkway, trying not to look like you were as terrified as it was hard not to be. You approach the door and attempt to not stare at the lace curtain that shielded the windows.
Yes. Lace.
The thing that scares you the most, however, is opening the letterbox. You need two hands to open it, because it is so stiff, and you realise that, if something from the depths of hell were to attack you, you wouldn’t be able to fight it off, because your hands were stuck inside the goddamn letterbox.
The building is surrounded by regular houses, each almost identical to its unusual neighbour. But, where they have cut grass and rose bushes, this one has thorns and ivy.
You wonder if anybody lives there, if it’s humanly possible for anyone to live there. You don’t think so. After a time, you accept that you probably won’t get snatched by whatever orders the papers for that house. You let the house remain forgotten to the rest of the world.
A couple of years later, when delivering papers had become a horrendous chore, you try to brighten things up by listening to a podcast. And, in this podcast, the ‘house that seems like it exists,’ but doesn’t, reminds you so much of this house, of the one on your paper round, that your curiosity is spiked once again.
Then, one day, the door opened.
Nothing else had changed; it was still 7:30 am, still raining, the letterbox was still stiff and the blue can was still outside the building. But, as you turn away from the door, you feel a gust of warm, dry, old air as, soundlessly, the door opened. There was no clichéd ghost story tell that this was going to lead to your death.
What do you do? Hell yeah you were curious! But, if the door opened, didn’t that mean there was somebody on the inside? Which meant that this building definitely belonged to somebody, which meant that going inside was trespassing.
On the other hand… There is a pile of newspapers at the front door. Reaching down, you recognise some of the front covers on the topmost one from recently. Further down though… The bottom most one was from… 2 years ago. You realise with a start that this we just a few weeks after you started your paper round. You’re not sure why this is relevant, but it sends shivers down your spine.
You go inside the house. Not just inside the doorway, but properly inside. You leave the door open.
There is no one around. You try not to make a sound; you are not going to start calling out “hello,” in a strangers house. That was what got children in horror films killed!
Creeping softly, you head towards the stairs. Underneath the cobwebs, stretching like guitar strings across the opening, the are 2 staircases. One goes up, the other heads down.
One a staircase to Heaven, the other, to Hell.
Before you can decide which one to take, a gust of air, cold this time, and moist, the complete opposite of the air that lead you inside the house, washed over you. It comes from the ‘staircase to Hell’. Well, that maxed the depiction much easier; your sense of curiosity had never been stronger.
A you descend, you notice the walls becoming less plast and more… Organic in texture. Almost like somebody had simply dug under the house and forgotten to cover it over.
Almost like a grave.
You count the steps as you continue beneath the earth. Inside your head of course; apparently, you’re stupid enough to enter the creepy house but you’re not stupid enough to alert anything to your presence any further.
Blindly, you grope for the handrail, before stumbling as you realise there are no more stairs.
You had counted 34.
In the ‘basement tomb,’ as you have crudely dubbed it, there is a single lamp lighting up most of the room. What isn’t lit up seems more frightening than what is. The walls are made of some sort of clay or mud, but it isn’t the right colour – they are a deep purple, almost black colour.
In not-quite-the-centre-of-the-room is a table. Well, not-quite-a-table. It seems to be mad out of driftwood almost, nailed roughly to a few sticks that have been hammered into the soft floor. It seems big enough to lie down on.
Again, you’re not sure why this is relevant.
Instinctively, you feel someone’s presence behind you, before you hear the manic crackle of laughter.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” the man, of whom said crackling laugh belongs to, says.
You say nothing, but start backing slowly towards the stairs. You must have misjudged your direction at some point, because your back hits something warm, and sharp, and slimy.
The man’s face splits into a horrendous, soul tearing grin as you turn around, screaming at the sight that lies before you.
A face, with 2 green eyes, a nose covered in freckles and a mass of straight, purple hair stares back at you. It is on a spike. You think it is on a spike. You look on in horror as the warm, sharp and slimy metallic body belonging to the face starts to move towards you, the jagged edge of the knifed hand inching towards your left eye.
“I didn’t realise you we so eager to begin,” the man says, chuckling as you scream again.
You’re scream is harsh and sharp, almost a high e in pitch, but it is expected. The man would be disappointed if you don’t scream. The sound thrills him, making all the messy, oozy bits worth it.
This is the scream he came here for.
The hand that was inching towards your left eye has stopped, practically roughing your pupil. It is so close, so close it has turned blurry. So blurry now that it no longer has a point.
Obviously, the majority of you brain has turned to mush at the prospect of what could potentially happen to you. Yet a part of you still wonders.
You wonder about who will find your body. You wonder whether he will clean up your blood, of he’ll just let is rot, let you lie in it till you are discovered. You wonder about his next victim, whether he’ll have a next victim, or if this is just a one time thing.
This wondering must show in your eyes because it hides the fear there. The man does not like this.
“End it.” The words from the man’s lips, soaked in venom, are the final blow.
You see darkness and then black, which is different from the dark. The worst pain you have ever felt, ever imagined, ever read about in one of your books, seems from the left hand side of your face. You are dimly aware of your knees buckling as you fall to the ground, clutching your head, voice screaming, throat gurgling, eye socket pulsing the wet, hot gush of blood. Unconsciousness takes you, before Death stole you from him.
The man stands over you, yelling out his victory to the nothing that heard him. He clutches he prize as the brown iris stared back, lost, alone and eternal.
The man places his trophy into a jar and carefully replaces the lid.
Now he has one in each colour.
He turns back to your body and lifts you onto the ‘table,’ before adding your ‘parts’ to his collection.
Shannon.
Tags: attempt at a creepy story, Original fic, Writing
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