The House Next Door

A simple yet classic horror.

Cynthia glared out her window at the grim manor next door. Its creaking had kept her up all night, making it impossible for any rest. SHe dearly needed it; there was a lecture she was to attend the very next day.

Slamming her desk drawer shut, Cynthia flinched at the sound of laughter from the graveyard. A child’s voice cut into the night:

Ring around the rosie,

Pockets full of posies,

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down!

More dreadful laughter followed before stopping, like one might turn off a radio.

Outloud -to reassure herself, Cynthia supposed- she said, “I’ll see what that house is all about, ‘aight?” like she was talking to a relative she brought from Dublin to London.

Cynthia tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear as she grabbed a candle, then a flashlight, just in case. Why she was doing this at night -her Gram said that’s when the evil things are more powerful- she had no idea. All she knew was that she had to get to the bottom of this unnerving mystery.

She pulled her coat on over her knitted sweater-dress and headed out. The candlelight flickered as Cynthia tucked the flashlight in her pocket.

The road -Birkingham Drive- was foggy and deserted, twisting past ponds and huge forests. Nobody else, wisely, lived on the road. Cynthia wished she had decided not to.

Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight; her breath came out in cloud puffs floating through the cold autumn air. GLad she was wearing a coat, Cynthia rubbed her arms with her free hand.

The yellow-orange glow washed over the brown-grassed lawn that looked recently cut. ‘Creepy’ was the only thought that crossed Cynthia’s mind.

A rickety fence surrounded the manor, -thank goodness- the gate swinging gently in the breeze.

As soon as Cynthia crossed the threshold into the yard, the temperature alarmingly dropped 20 degrees. she shivered.

‘Maybe I ought to go back?’ Cynthia thought, crunching up to the front door. A simple glance around confirmed nothing dangerous so far.

It still felt like someone was watching her.

There was a sound like someone blowing something out, and then the candlelight extinguished.

Cynthia gasped.

The wind had died down a few minutes before; what had blown it out?

‘Keep moving forward,’ she scolded herself. She had brought a flashlight for this exact reason, anyway.

Cynthia flicked it on, sighing in relief.

Then the light flickered and went out.

She slapped a hand against her mouth to keep from screaming; hitting her flashlight against a porch pillar, relaxing when the light came back on.

The door creaked open when she pushed on it. Weird; wasn’t it supposed to be locked?

Not a single light to be seen but her flashlight’s, Cynthia carefully moved forward into the shadowy hall, pushing her hair out of her face.

The windows were cracked, vases smashed; dead flowers from the vases littered around their remnants. Chairs were upside down or snapped in two; tables split in half. No electronics -’this is the 21st century, who doesn’t have one?’ Cynthia thought- sat anywhere. No TV in front of the dusty couch, radio on the kitchen table to listen to ball games, nothing. Not even an outlet.

Cynthia crept up the crumbled stairs, looking in all directions. No supernatural entity.

Yet.

It got darker the farther up the stairs she climbed. The manor had not basement or cellar, but she wouldn’t have gone down one anyway.

A repulsive smell wafted towards Cynthia, making her wrinkle her nose. It smelled like her high school science dissection room.

Gross.

There was no light in the attic either; the former resident must have just used lanterns and a fireplace. That would have been hard.

Cynthia swung her flashlight beam in an arc, surveying the room. What she saw almost made her scream.

Amidst the trash bags and boxes of collectible memories sat a recently polished skeleton. A complete skeleton.

Thank goodness it didn’t have the organs or blood, because Cynthia would have actually screamed.

‘Get out!’ she mentally shrieked. ‘Get out of here, you bloody fool!’ but her feet seemed to be frozen to the wooden floor.

Come play with us, an eerie child’s voice giggled.

“NO!” yelled Cynthia. “Let me out, you git!”

A low, horrid sounding rumble came from the dark window. Cynthia backed towards the stairs, waving her flashlight. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a cloud of fog condensing into a shape.

The shape of a little girl in a wet, billowing dress. Long curls framed her face, a creepy grin spreading across it.

The girl was some sort of ghostly apparition, Cynthia reasoned. Phantomly, even.

Whatever it -the girl- was, she was at least ten, and that definitely wasn’t water.

That skeleton was the girl’s, which only made the nightmarish feel worse.

The girl -ghost, demon, whatever- hurtled towards Cynthia. She ducked, pointing her flashlight at the ghost.

More fog was condensing, forming children in sleepwear, their Sunday best, even school uniforms.

“Go away!” Cynthia yelled, dodging them like a soccer player.

All at once, they opened their mouths and let out the most blood-curdling shriek.

A much higher pained shriek joined, and Cynthia realized -hands over her ears, flashlight swinging- that it was her own.

Then it went horrifyingly silent. It was as though the world was put on pause.

One by one, the children let out another hair-raising shriek before disapparating, leaving just the girl.

“What do you want?” Cynthia trembled, backing towards the void-black stairway.

The ghost’s voice was shockingly soft, but had a dreadful highness to it.

My house, she whispered, floating closer to Cynthia. MY HOUSE! She chanted it, like an exorcism in reverse. GET OUT!

Her dripping-blood dress brushes against Cynthia’s own dress, leaving wet, red marks.

Before Cynthia could open her mouth, the girl was letting out an impossibly high screech.

The windows shattered; everything was pushed back by invisible sound waves. Pain pounded Cynthia’s skull like a sledgehammer.

Without even realizing it, Cynthia was heading down the stairs, out the door, and in her own dark, flashlight lit front yard.

With a sigh of relief, she bounded up the steps and into her room.

The familiar blueness of the room was comforting. She changed into pajamas, sitting down at her computer.

She opened Google and typed in the search bar:

APARTMENTS FOR RENT IN LONDON.