Willa's Ghost
Posted: Thursday, March 18, 2010
by Jack H. Schick
The first sensation was sound, a subdued, dull sound; the rhythmic beating of his heart, a muffled thump...thump...thump in his ears. There was no actual consciousness yet, just the hazy notice of the faint, almost indistinguishable pulsing of involuntary life seething through his veins. Gradually the somnolent veil began to fade. He now heard a soft drumming, the melodious patter of rain on the window sash. Then another notion, the sense of touch arose. He became aware of a dryness in his mouth, a rough parchedness that made his throat feel small and his tongue useless, jagged and swollen. The smooth, cool, damp of the linen pressing against his cheek contrasted. The conflict aroused a growing awareness. He knew now that he was no longer sleeping.
He slowly became aware of something else, not through senses one can describe. He had a shrill, sharp certainty that he was no longer alone. He was sensitive to a presence, a dark threatening presence nearby. It was the same certainty he had as a child when he'd wake, leap from the bed in horror and run from the room, convinced he confronted a ghoul. It was the same certainty that, as a younger man, had held him frozen on the bed in indescribable, unfathomable terror and incited him to repeat, over and over, the Lord's Prayer, which he was convinced would drive all demons away.
It grew ominous and grim, the sensational presence. The room's atmosphere thickened with a dark energy. It crawled across the floor like a fog. It crept under his sheet and up his legs, the darkness, a swirling frightful ether. It reached the pit of his stomach, wrenched it and chilled him like death might. The hairs on his neck twitched and rose. Invisible cold fingers gripped at his throat, stifling him. The thick atmosphere swirled into his mouth and up his nostrils suffocating him. He could almost smell it, almost taste it. His scalp seemed to ripple and twitch with electric, icy surges. A steady buzz rose in his ears and grew in intensity and volume; louder and sharper, it raced toward a climax soon to be reached.
He silently repeated his prayer. He slowly, slowly eased his hand under the pillow for his gun. Very slight motion so it could not be perceived, as he sensed there were eyes upon him. He secured his grip but lay silent and still. The metal seemed warm and hard. The buzz in his ears grew painful. The weight of his funk was crushing. He summoned all of his mental and spiritual strength. He battled back the sinister haze the enveloped him. Transforming his terror to anger, he threw off his cover and leaped from the bed, his gun pointed and ready to fire.
There was no one there. The rain beat harder on the window pane. There was a dim recollection of the drab furniture, the thread bare carpet and the small kitchen set in the grey shadows. The red glow on the wall and ceiling from the hotel sign threw a grotesque aura on the scene. A thin sliver of yellow hall light peered under the door and drew a vague amber rectangle on the floor. He noticed his hand shaking, the barrel of the pistol wavering. He stealthily moved toward the bathroom, slowly pushed open the door. He started at his own dim silhouette in the mirror. The lurid sense of peril returned and surged up his spine. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his face. His nape tickled and chilled. The buzzing rose in his ears to a crescendo not reached before. He stepped slowly forward, gun gripped hard and ready. With a quivering hand he slowly reached out and jerked the shower curtain aside. There was no one there.
His terror sagged some. He shook his head at his foolishness. He was no longer a child. There were no longer ghouls in shower stalls, yet the sensation, the atmosphere that permeated the room refused to abate. He felt the tingling chill return rippling up and down his back, tensing the muscles in his neck. He tried to shake it from his mind. It would not disperse. He stepped out from the bathroom and scanned the room again. There was a shadow; a movement. The yellow sliver seeping under the door dimmed. A large flat envelope slid quickly under the door.
He bound across the room, slammed back the bolt and leaped into the hall, gun in hand. The yellow, shadeless light bulb hung still. The other doors were all closed. He raced to the stairs with long sprinting strides. He looked down to the broad glass front doors. They were fixed and secure. He had not heard the latch or hinge. He had not heard a footstep on the stair. There was no movement, just the sense of a presence.
He descended cautiously, step by step, listening, watching. The rain began to fall with fury. Puddles formed and splashed on the stoop. He noticed no foot prints on the rubber entry mat. The chill surged through him again, stronger, colder. He sensed there was someone, something malevolent near. He peeked over the railing and down the back hall toward the laundry room. The door was closed and hasped, but a filled linen bin was tucked in beneath the stair.
He stood by the door shivering. The rain pounded behind him. A distant boom of thunder made him jump. He summoned courage and crept down the short hall to the laundry bin. He'd never felt such panic. He'd seen much danger over the years. There was something different here. It was like the night terrors he'd suffered so long ago. The extra sensitivity they claimed he had. He could see the entire bin. There was nothing behind it. He considered shooting into the sheets and towels. Suddenly the chill shrieked in his mind the smothering ether engulfed him, made him gasp and nearly made him swoon.
He turned. Outside the glass doors, standing on the stoop in the driving rain stood a young girl. She stared at him. Her eyes vacent and hollow. Her dress was white with crimson trim. Her shoes were ruby red. There was a red bow in her shoulder length yellow hair. He staggered toward her. Her hair was perfectly dry. She vaguely smiled and pointed up the stairs. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. She turned and ran away quickly. As consciousness began to fade he saw her run. She made no splashes in the puddles as she disappeared into the night.
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Top-level comments on this article: (6 total)Curious. Descriptions were intense. You took the reader on a trip for sure.Thanks for reading and commenting
Really really spooky and good!Thnaks, I hoped it would be
Is this story leading into a new book? I really enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing Jack.It's part of an idea for a detective/ghost story novel, yes- thanks for reading
I would have liked to read more. It was getting really interesting when it ended.Thanks for reading and commenting- jsut a sketch, a beginning of a novel.
Very well written story. Thanks for making me smile today. :)You're welcome- I was trying to be scary, though- I'll work on another one.
Very well written and spooky! Are there more installments to this story on the horizon?
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