Sawyer B


A Creek On the Balcony Stair

“Are you sure you can't stay?” Tim said. “I really don't want to stay home alone.”

His parents looked at him with disbelief. “Son, are you still obsessed over this idea of there being a ghost in this house?” his father said. “It's been three weeks and you haven't slept in days. I hate to break it to you, but ghosts don't exist.”

Tim felt immediately raged. “Yes there are! There are too! You just won't look at it with your own two pair of eyes! There real, I tell you! Real!” Tim's parents grabbed a blanket from the closet, gave it to him, and bid a brief farewell, as they left for their date night.

Tim's parents didn't know anything going on in this house like he did. He's lived here his whole life, but he never realized that these paranormal entities were here all along. It seemed like they were trying to harm him more and more.

He was sitting in the living room, blanket covering his whole body, with the exception of his eyes, watching television, very intensely where his eyes never blinked away from the screen. Tim was scared of it. He knew it was haunting him. The show distracted him for a little while before he would slip back into his funk. He heard a creek in his house and immediately shivered, debating whether to look back or not without seeing something. Another creek rang out. This time he looked back and saw nothing. He was scared now.

It was then that the TV signal began to static and the lights began to flicker. Stuff began to rattle. There was knocking on the floorboards. The furniture began to shake rapidly violent. The terror in this house was trying to scare Tim out – and it was working! The couch he was laying on flipped over onto him. The whole chaos escalated, making the feeling seem like a tornado is ripping through Tim's house. He screamed at the top of his horrified lungs, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Suddenly, it stopped. Everything halted. The air was cold and quiet. Tim was trapped under the couch and couldn't get out. Once he thought it seemed okay to enter the darkness of my house, he tried to smuggle out of the hole, when all of a sudden a statue from atop the fireplace fell and smashed right in front of him, scaring him back in. He crawled back in because he knew...he knew it was out there for him, waiting. Tim was panting now, not able to catch a breath. Footsteps were creeping down the staircase, creak by creak, and he knew that it was on his way.

He couldn't just sit there and wait for it. He immediately scrambled out from under the couch while he could and darted into the kitchen. He didn't know what to do, but hide in a cabinet. The footsteps were getting closer. Tim couldn't just sit in there, so he ran into the basement, screaming, causing the footsteps to speed up. Scrambling down the stairs, he hid in the corner, waiting for it to come out at him. Tim was starting to cry. He didn't know what to do or what it would do to him. It could kill him. He wasn't dumb; he's seen those horror movies, and now he felt like he was in one.
“SH! He's coming,” a figure said to him. Tim was startled. It was an image of a little girl. He looked in the corner across from his and realized that there was a figure standing straight up with blood all over its body with its eyes boldly staring at him. It startled him.

It was coming down the steps. He felt the cold air turn colder. Once it reached the concrete floor, it was walking his way. I heard the sound of something scraping against the floor. It seemed like a metal object, and that's when Tim lost it. He let out a moan and immediately covered his mouth. The movement stopped. The footsteps slowly crept towards his corner. He felt like it was over, but everything stopped. Nothing was happening. Tim tried to look up, but the pieces of crates he was hiding behind exploded and shoved him away, exposing himself.

It saw him. Tim immediately scrambled back up stairs and to the front door, the ghost hot on his trail. The pounding footsteps sounded infuriated, but he wasn't going to let it victimize him. Tim tried to open the front door but it didn't work. He was screaming for it to open, yanking on the door handle with all of his might, but it wouldn't budge. No one was coming to the door to open it, so Tim ran to the balcony stairs.

Something tripped him in the hallway. It might've been the ghost. Lying on the floor, Tim looked up and saw a shadow of something. It was charging at him. Picture frames along the hallway wall were coming down and shattering on the floor. Tim sprang up and headed up the stairs towards the second story deck of their home. He was outside in the shivering winter air. There was the second story of their home to the right of him, and although he tried to open the door, it was locked. He tried the same technique he did with the front door, but it wouldn't budge. He was trapped outside and couldn't get back into his home.

After three hours of huddling in the corner for warmth, Tim was near freezing to death. His last resort was just to jump down. He'd at least fall in some soft snow, but he needed to get into some warmth. Tim decided to do so, and with all of the warm might he had, he simply jumped. The cold air blowing through his hair and his eyes closed, he'd hoped that the fall wouldn't hurt him...

Thud! Tim hit the ground. He landed on ice-covered snow. It really hurt him. He knew he were to have bruises on his arms now. Crawling back up to his shaky feet, Tim rushed over to his neighbor's house. After knocking on the door continuously for three minutes, Mrs. Degg answered in a cranky manner.

“What's the big idea?” she said, with a cigarette hanging form her mouth. “It's late and I'm trying to watch my reruns of Law and Order. Get out of here!”

As irritating as her raspy, Italian accented, tone was, Tim butted in, “Please, Mrs. Degg, I'm begging you! I got locked out of my own house and I can't get back in! I've been sitting out here for three hours and I'm shivering! Please...let me in...”

She looked puzzled. “What? You're locked out? How? You're parents have been home for a while.”

Tim looked at her in confusion. “They're not home! I never heard them come in!”

“Well, probably because you were outside for a while,” she snapped back in a condescending tone, and slammed the door shut.

Tim had to try. He walked over back to his home, walked up the porch steps, and rang the doorbell. He knew if they weren't there he'd be back into the clutches of that menacing phantom. He rang the doorbell once again, and no one answered, until the doorknob slowly opened, and the door slightly creaked open. Tim heard the sound of something crackling. He knew what it was, and slammed the door open, running in.

The house was on fire! Tim screamed, watching the red flames engulf everything into ashes. He knew it was that phantom who did this. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed the phone, trying to dial 911, only being interrupted by a ghostly hand. It was the little girl. She said, “No, don't call them. They don't need to know...”

Tim yanked his hand away from the apparition and ran straight back into the hallway, where he was greeted by the bloody man with a knife in his hand. His bold eyes, bloodshot and targeted right at him, started to walk forward. Tim froze there in terror, when the balcony staircase railing, aflame, broke and collapsed onto the man. Tim fell to the ground with horror to see the bloody man's disembodied figure set on fire. Tim was crying now, shouting, “What's going on? What do you want?!”

Suddenly, the figure moved and stood up, still on fire. He wasn't at all affected by the flames. Tim, lying on the ground, stared at him, as he had the expression of as if he were looking into the eyes of satan. He fumbled to get back up and darted towards the kitchen with the bloody man chasing after him. Tim, on one side of the kitchen island counter, and the bloody man on the other, both were flinching to get at or run away from one another. Tim ran into the dining room separate from the kitchen, where suddenly, he ran into his parents.

His dad, holding a hysterically crying Tim, calmed him down. “It's okay, son, it's okay. We're back. No need to cry about it.” Tim didn't stop, and held onto his father's arms, saying, “Dad, I saw him! I saw it! It set the house on fire and locked me out from up stairs and scared me half to death and-”

“Timothy!” his mother stated. Tim looked up. The house wasn't on fire. Nothing was touched. The bloody man was gone, along with the little girl. Everything seemed fine.

“What's happening?” Tim said. “Where did it go?”

His parents looked at him with confusion. “Where did what go?”

Tim knew those ghosts were playing tricks on him. He knew they didn't want to reveal themselves to other people just so they can try to make me look crazy and mad. He wouldn't let this happen. Tim darted down to the basement, with his parents, very concerned about him, following him down the stairs. Tim showed them the basement; the broken crates, the corner where the man stood, but nothing was there. The crates weren't broken anymore and the man wasn't there. “What's going on?” Tim's father said. “Let's go upstairs.”

Tim explained the whole thing to his parents, who throughout the long story, had an expression of doubt and concern. “Timothy, that is a very long story, but obviously, none of that happened,” his mom said. “This house is fine. You just need some good nights rest. After all, you did say you needed some.”

Timothy, defeated from the battle, knew that they wouldn't listen, and headed up the stairs. The war with this apparition wasn't over, and throughout the night, sitting in his bed, he knew that the ghost wouldn't take this behavior of mine lightly (after he tried to tell his parents about it), and would strike again, along with the bloody man and the girl. He knew it was either in the closet making the knocking noise, or under the bed where the little giggles occurred, or the attic, where the banging of the roof filled the room. It wasn't going to leave him alone, and he knew that there wasn't anything he could do but be prepared for what doom would come next.

All Tim had to do now is wait; wait for “it” to show itself and prove his parents wrong so they can get out of this house.

 

By: Sawyer Breitsprecher