The Ghost in the Darkness

A house sitter encounters the bumps in the night she's alyaws dreamed of, only to find they're not what she thought they were.

I wake suddenly to a noise I interpret to be a knocking on the door. Wiping the sleep from I eyes, I shuffle to the front door and open it. “Do you know what time it is?” I ask before registering that there is no one there.

Frowning, I yawn and close the door. The sound is still here. I am no longer groggy and my heart beats faster in my chest. Gary had known I would jump at the chance to housesit, seeing how I love a good haunted house. This is ridiculous though. Honestly, did he need to schedule bumps in the night for my pleasure?

 

The house is five miles from a lake. The funeral parlor that had been on the same spot fifty years ago had serviced the small town just fifteen miles south. Up this way, there is nothing but woods. Oh, there was a nice lawn, interesting landscaping, a fountain of all things. But now it’s just a nice big lawn surrounded by trees, kinda spooky in a weird way.

 

I came from the thick of the city, three hours away, so to wake suddenly to what I at first believed to be someone at the door is not unusual. Finding out that it’s really something in the house is. I walk to the bathroom, assuming the shower may be dripping, unwilling to believe my mounting anxiety.

 

The shower is not dripping, and as I sit back on the closed stool, the pounding stops. I shake my head, laughing, ready to go back to bed. When I stand, I hear a loud crash from the basement. I nearly jump out of my skin, but manage to keep from screaming. I will never admit this to Gary that he nearly got me with that one.

 

Disregarding the darkness, I head for the basement door. I won’t let this get the better of me. Slowly descending the stairs, I strain to see anything that might indicate the source of the sound. However, as good as my night vision may be, the atmosphere down here is black.

 

I follow the wall at the end of the steps, trying to feel for anything that might have fallen. Straining in the dark, my heart pounding loud in my chest, I can feel nothing. When I stop, the sound that had awakened me continues from across the basement. I turn toward it and feel a brush of wind against my cheek, a soft voice that sounds like an E.V.P. recording states simply in my ear, “Get out.”

 

I stop, turning again, but nothing is there. And now I have the soft pounding, and the soft voice plaguing me. I nearly run, but something finally catches my eye. I turn yet again as another loud crash succeeds in tearing a scream from me. In the corner, on the other side of the basement, I see the thin outline of a specter.

 

It is no clearer than the hazy outline outside a fogged window, but it is doing something. I move toward it, and the voice at my ear screams, “Get OUT!!” and is then silent.

 

The pounding stops again and I can see the specter is turned toward me. I am stuck, unable to move. The specter is moving toward me, shifting but becoming no clearer, and when it is right in front of me, it reaches out a hand to touch my arm. Cold like ice, the specter’s hand rests just above my wrist, and then it is gone.

 

 ***

 

I awake to what I believe is pounding on the door. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shuffle to the door and open it. “Do you know…” I stop.

 

Blinding sunlight pours in around a figure at first shadowed to my groggy eyes, but concern on a familiar face becomes clearer as I blink a few times. It is Gary.

 

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a week, and now I’m locked out of my own house.” He stops and looks at me again. I can formulate no response.

“Are you ok?” he reaches for me. “You look like…” But his hand passes through me, and I disappear.

Author's Note

This piece was rejected by a horror magazine because they didn't see the horror in it. I'd like some pointers on how I could possibly tweak this, or even other types of publications that might like to look at it. Thanks.

Reviews

[vamplit]

Hi Jen

I've taken you at you word and have edited this short story for you. I've removed the spelling errors and tweaked it a bit. I've added a teenage back story with hints of necrophillia and murder. I read this as a classic ghost story rather than a horror. I loved the ending and would like to publish it in a Gothic anthology or an ebook of short stories. Let me know if you'd like to publish this short story with us.


Suddenly I'm awake and the rhythmic bang, bang, inside my head translates to knocking on the door in my sleep-drugged brain. The sleep in eyes itches, so I rub my eyes and shuffle to the front door. I open the door with undue force. "Do you know what time it is?" I shout before registering that there is no one there.
Frowning, I yawn and close the door. The bang, bang sound is still here. No longer groggy as my heart beat faster in my chest matching the bang, bang noise that surrounds me. Gary, the practical joker, had known I would jump at the chance to housesit. The very idea of sleeping in his haunted house has fascinated me for years. This is ridiculous though. Did Gary think I was the type of fool to fall the things that go bump in the night prank? Honestly, did he need to schedule bumps in the night for my pleasure?

Gary's creepy house is about five miles from a lake and surrounded by trees. Until about ten years ago a family called Schiller had own the land; they'd been the owners of the local funeral parlour and according to our small town urban legend they'd brought their work home. I can still remember Sam my adventurous best friend bragging about sneaking out here and swearing on his mama's life that he'd seen the body of his Grandma sitting in the dinning room holding a teacup in her stiff posed hand. According to Sam Mr Schiller talked to her as if she was still alive and Mrs Chambers the wife of the pastor was dress like a hooker and holding a bottle of whisky in her dead hand.

Who'd believe a story like that, I hadn't and I know Sam was disappointed that I wouldn't go with him to see for myself. Sam disappeared that summer and everyone in town looked and looked from him. Sam was never found, but his mama swore he'd been heading out towards the lake. My family moved before school started and over the years I forgot about Sam, until now. My only link to the area was my friendship with Gary, who bought this house or inherited it, I wasn't really clear on how he'd come to own this house. It seemed I'd had more sense as a teenager than I had now.

Normally I live in the thick of the city, three hours away, so to wake suddenly to what I at first believed to be someone at the door is not unusual. Finding out that it's really something in the house, is. I walk to the bathroom, assuming the shower may be dripping or there might be an air in the pipes still unwilling to believe my mounting anxiety.

The shower is not dripping and the pipes are quiet as the grave. I sit on the edge of the old tub, the pounding stops. I shake my head, laughing, ready to go back to bed. When I stand, I hear a loud crash from the basement. I nearly jump out of my skin, but manage to keep from screaming. I will never admit to Gary that he nearly got me with that one. This must be a practical joke; Gary was just the sort to think this was funny.

Disregarding the darkness, I head for the basement door. I won't let fear get the better of me. Slowly descending the stairs, I strain to see anything that might point to the source of the sound. However, as good as my night vision may be, the atmosphere down here is black. And it smell funny too.

Now at the bottom of the basement steps I follow the wall with my clammy hands, trying to feel for anything that might have fallen. Straining my eyes in the dark, my heart pounds so loud in my chest I'm almost deafened. I can feel nothing. When I stop, the sound that had awakened me continues from across the basement. I turn towards it and feel a rush of wind against my cheek, a soft voice, which sounds like an E.V.P. recording whispers simply in my ear, "Get out."

I stop and turn yet again, but nothing is there. Now I have the pounding and the soft voice plaguing me. I nearly run but then something catches my eye in the gloom. I twist around again as another loud crash finally succeeds in tearing a scream from me. In the corner, on the other side of the basement, I see the thin outline of a spectre.

It is no clearer than the hazy outline outside a fogged window, but it is doing something. I move toward it, and the voice at my ear screams, "Get OUT!!" and is then silent.

The pounding stops again and I can see the spectre has turned toward me. Frozen by terror, unable to move my heart is now beats hard enough to burst. The spectre is moving toward me, shifting, but becoming no clearer. Stopping right in front of me, the ghoul reaches out a hand shaped cloud of cold mist to touch my arm. Cold like ice, the spectre's intangible hand rests on the pulse point just above my wrist, and then it is gone.

***

I awake to what I believe is pounding on the door. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shuffle to the door and open it. "Do you know�" I stop.

Blinding sunlight pours in around the figure shadowed in mist at first, by my groggy sleep starved eyes. Concern on a familiar face becomes clearer as I blink a few times. It is Gary.

"Is everything alright?" he asks. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for a week and now I'm locked out of my own house." He stops and looks at me again. I can formulate no response.
"Are you ok?" he reaches for me. "You look like�" But his hand passes through me, and I disappear.

[John]

I like the story. I don't think I can be a good judge of horror, but I thought it was a little creepy and the unepected twist at the end was great.

I think SR Urie made some great points.

Also why were there no lights in the house?

Great job keep up the good work

[SR Urie]

Hey Jen.
Again, great work! I think that maybe this was rejected by the 'horror' mag was because you need to crescendo the plot a bit, build the tension up from the beginning instead of shoving scary events out there like bricks from the sand. For instance you talk about how the pounding stops after you checked the bathroom. Now was it pounding (from where? the walls, the door, the attic?) or did the knock on the door turn to a steady pounding? To build in the tension it would help if you described how it made you feel, whether is scared the crap out of you or irritated you or ticked you off because of some prank that someone like Gary had played. What does the knocking on the door/pounding/crash in the basement sound like? Is it a fist on the wall or a nailed club at the door or a tin can a mouse knocked over in the basement, or is it a figment of your imagination? As you sleepily walk around the house is there a chill in the air or some weird electricity that raises the hairs on the back of your neck? Or are you stuck in some half forgotten dream/nightmare as you stumble down the hallway and painfully stub your toe on a dresser? And once you've established some kind of reason for the reader in your own mind, wouldn't that be a good time to poke a stick of shock up from the river water (instead of a brick from the sand, so to speak) and have a butcher knife fly by your head, narrowly missing your neck and scaring the s**t out of you as you lean back against the wall and wonder what the hell to do to keep the next knife from hitting its target? Then you can start to describe the goul, the evil caretaker or poltergeist or mad scientist or the bump in the basement that leads to your demise. Third person gives you a lot of lattitude with that kind of ultimate perspective, especially when wrapping the whole enchelada up at the end. Capiche' pison' ?
You've got a great start to a real shocker here. I suggest that you set me (the reader) up on a high shelf with vividity and imagery and scary thoughts on the part of the subject, then throw me down the stairs so that I can understand why you disappear when Gary finally shows up, because I (the reader) am theoretically there with you in the same boat.
Keep it up, dear. As tedious as writing is, if it were easy everyone would be doing it well. BZ

[bluessadmood]

That was a very neat writing..this was very exciting to read..as to the horror part of it ,I guess they were right ,
I would not consider it as a horror story,its a very nice story but not really creepy,I would put it somewhere between some wild imagination
and some kind of a portray of some strange personality ,her personalty,some would like to believe there are always some strange apparitions or ghosts around us
and try convince themselves with this,its part of their own build..something else ,this story ended prematurely..I would have liked to know how she turned to something
like a ghost,you could have put some way of reasoning as to what happened to her..this is a wonderful writing..I hope these notes could help..
lovely write ..

[Samuel Dickens]

I agree with Eagle--your story is brilliant. If I may offer my opinion, I'd say that the magazine may have rejected it because of its need for some editing and "tightening." (their saying they didn't see the horror in it may have just been an excuse) I'll use your first sentence as an example-- I'd leave out the words "I interpret as" and change it to "I wake (awake?) suddenly to a knocking on the door."
A little tweaking here and you've got yourself something Edgar Allen Poe would envy.

[megaluv92]

i saw the horror in it. i thought the description was very good. not really sure why they rejected it. i so did not expect the ending. ♥

[Eagle Cruagh]

If there is a problem it is all in the last paragraph.
I suggest you just play with that par.
Try a lot of different things. It will come to you,
but don`t stop.

This is a masterpiece, when you have finally captured the
winning conclusion you will be happy as a clam.

Brilliant !

An easy 100 %

----- Eagle Cruagh