“Where are you?”
Came the nervous call. Makayla’s voice sounded oddly hollow and lonely against
the quiet emptiness of the big house on Everett Drive. “Hello?” She called out
again, flipping the light switch hastily up and down. The room remained dark,
and not a single streetlight glowed outside. The only flicker of light came
from across the living room, through big bay windows and out across the river
where Portland’s busy streets glowed safe and bright in spite of the storm.
Makayla shivered. “Mom?” She murmured, more softly, this time. Her mother’s car
was kept in the garage. She felt her way across slippery wooden floors to the
door of the garage, opened it and tossed one of her shoes out to where the car should
have been. The shoe landed with a gentle thud against concrete. Makayla, with
all the sudden terror of any person who suddenly finds herself completely alone
in a large, dark house, whipped out her cell phone, trying to coax battery life
from its dying form. “Come on!” she whispered fiercely as she pressed her thumb
into its glass face. But the iphone only crooned its death song and darkened
once more. Feeling irrational panic rising, Makayla shoved the useless phone
back into her back pocket and started for the kitchen where she managed to find
and light a candle. Breathing easier, she set the warm, glowing light on the
countertop, the scent of vanilla sweetly singing through her nose. Thunder
rumbled through the river valley, deep and unfamiliar. The wind beat against
the house and the rustling of the trees crackled with every new gust. Makayla
caught sight of a slip of paper on the
refrigerator.
Went to visit
Aunty Mary. Tim is getting worse. Pray. Will be home late.
Fantastic. Makayla thought
sarcastically. She uttered a quick, duty prayer for her uncle, who was in the
hospital, and returned to worrying about her own situation. Who knew when her
mother would be home, and Makayla knew that nothing but the very direst of
exhaustion would cause her to sleep through a night like that. The candlelight
flickered eerily against the walls of the bare, white house. It was new. The
Grants had only lived there for a few weeks, and Mr. Grant remained home in
Michigan, trying to sell the old house. The previous owners had left in a
hurry, leaving after living there only three months. They said they were
anxious to get to a better climate than gloomy Washington. Makayla was used to
rain, so she didn’t mind it much. But this storm was another matter. Rain was
one thing, pitch black darkness was another. She groped for a blanket and
snatched it up, settling down into the squashy suede sofa, one of the few
unpacked items in the house. She wished she knew which box the cocoa mix was
in, but digging around for it would require her to get up amongst the shadows
once more. The wind wheezed. The rain pounced angrily against the windows.
Makayla slouched deeper into the comforting pillows of the sofa, her breathing
growing rougher.
Then, a crash directly above her head
shattered through the empty house. Frozen, Makayla was too terrified even to
cry out.
A thought had
been trying to slip its way into her mind again and again as she had heard the
noises. So far the thought had not wormed its way in, for every noise had been
accounted for. This one was not.
It made no sense.
It had no explanation. The house was empty. There was nothing glass upstairs to
break. Nothing at all.
Makayla fought
against the thought with every ounce of mental strength, but finally she could
not resist thinking it any longer.
Could the house be haunted?
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