Rochelle

1. The End

                                                                     1. The End

Rochelle Bullock was only Six years old when she watched her mother die, and ten years later, she could still recall that very moment, like it happened only seconds ago.

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"Mommy!" Rochelle ran threw her small house, yelling for her mother. She ran down the stairs, a pretty scribble of a picture in her slim hand; for she had lost her baby wait very quickly. Rochelle slowed as she neared the stairs, knowing how dangerous they could be. She grabbed the thick railing and carefully trod down the steps, one by one.

"Mommy!" she yelled again in to the hall, but stopped. Something was wrong. Rochelle's six-year-old brain had grabbed the idea out of nowhere. But she knew to listen to it.

Rochelle took a big deep breath and scrambled into the little cupboard under the stairs, it was packed full with bikes, winter coats and shoes, but there was enough space for a slim six-year old to wriggle through.

Rochelle dragged a padded coat over her head and settled down on the floor. She was uncomfortable, but something told her to wait there and stay very, very quiet. She closed her eyes and began to slowly sway from side to side. It was only a small movement but, for some, reason, it made Rochelle feel so much better.

Until she hear the shrill scream of her mother.

It took a lot of control for Rochelle not to cry out herself. She was frightened, more frightened than she was when she imagined green ugly monsters under her bed, a lot more frightened than when the nasty man who wanted money for bills off her mommy came and whacked his hand against the door.

A strange gurgling noise rung out through the house, and Rochelle thought it was coming from the kitchen.  There was a loud thump and Rochelle buried herself under another thick coat.

Light footsteps scatted across the floor and Rochelle clamped her lips together. She heard an intake of breath, followed by lots of little sniffs, like someone was tasting the air.

"I know you're here." A voice whispered. It sounded like it was coming from anywhere and everywhere. But Rochelle didn't move.

"I can smell you, girl." The voice called again. It was as smooth as velvet and had an accent from a place that had long been forgotten and buried.

The footsteps came closer to the little cupboard under the stairs. "Come out, little girl." The door handle fluttered, and silent tears slipped down Rochelle's cheeks. If I just keep still and quiet, she thought, it will go away. Although it was a mans voice, Rochelle knew the being outside the cupboard was not human.

A loud clash from the kitchen and the footsteps scatted away, almost to quiet to be heard. Rochelle’s cat, Mimi, shrieked and a hiss roared from the kitchen, not belonging to the cat.

Rochelle knew she had one chance, as she pushed open the door of the cupboard and ran to the front door, her bare feet pattering on the carpet. She shoved the front door open and ran into the street. Rochelle ran as fast as her legs would carry her, and whacked her small fist against her next-door neighbor’s front door.

"Help meee! There's a man in my house and he's trying to hurt meee!" Rochelle screamed and the front door flew open. Philip Freeman, a thirty-something man, who bought Rochelle pretty shoes one year for her birthday, looked down at the hysterical ball of a six-year-old and ran right into Rochelle’s house.