Silent Vengeance (A haunting on Deer Creek Road)

Prologue:

        Running late, I heard my sister pacing by the front door. I promised her a day in town to hang out, get coffee, and possibly go shopping. Turning off the shower, I wrapped my hair in a towel before drying off. I taught my two girls to do the same in their youth. Little roses are still blooming but live without their mom now. I wondered what they both were up to, exploring another abandoned haunted location for YouTube. Or photos for a magazine company that enjoys the scares of the paranormal. Or was it an online blog company now? One step in this house, I knew the company they sent photos to would crap themselves. I am used to it anymore. The pounding on the basement door, the whispering, one moment, a door closes and then opens. I thought it was supposed to be older homes that were haunted. Not homes built in the two thousand. Isn't Myrtles Planation old, like the 1800s, and that place is haunted?

I reached for the hairbrush and took out the mangled mess when I heard the footsteps. Soft, feminine-like, with clicking heels. The bathroom door handle jiggled for a moment, then stopped. My eyes followed a silhouette outside the door, and I watched it disappear. Normal. I groaned, pulling knots viciously from my scalp and wincing like a teenager fretting over her first date. Man, how long ago was my first date? I was fourteen, maybe fifteen when I met the girl's father. A smile creased my face. I remembered him. Young, gorgeous brown eyes and soft pale skin, his lips soft against mine as we kissed goodnight. We married a few years later and had our first baby when I was in my early twenties. Setting down the hairbrush, I opened the bathroom door to hear my sister grumble.

I looked towards the spare bedrooms, not seeing a movement or hearing anything; I hurried towards her. I wore jeans and a loose T-shirt for our outing, sneakers, nothing too fancy, just coffee and some casual shopping. She needs more garbage, I suppose, for her home. Mine is minimalist style. I don't need a million things I don't. I am in my fifties now, and I would prefer fewer items for my family to kill each other over when I die. The two spare rooms are also quite simple: queen beds, a nightstand on each side, some decor, and that's about it. The bathroom, too, is simple with a shower curtain and the average bathroom decor, nothing a magazine company like Home and Gardens would fret over.

"Stacey," I groaned as I rushed to the second bedroom upstairs. "I need my purse,"

"Are you wearing high heels!" She shouted from downstairs, "It's not a date, Abagail,"

Am I wearing high heels? She heard the ghost from earlier. I never learned her name. She constantly paces and slams doors. From time to time, in the back room, I would hear a female crying, an awful, heartbreaking wail. That is not on my mind. It is my purse currently. With ADHD and an active house, I can't find shit here. I already knew it was on a side table in the upstairs hallway, or I thought it was, But when I came out of the bathroom, it was not on the side table anymore; it was missing.

"That wasn't me," I reassured her. "I am in sneakers," and running frantically for a missing purse.

She said nothing else, just whistled impatiently as I located my purse. A Demin purse one of the girls got me. I think it was Caitlin who bought me that large jean-style purse. It is now on the bed in the second guest room, resting on a pillow undisturbed. The purse suits me well and has a gem heart on the front. It makes me feel a little younger than my older age. I checked my hair in the upstairs hallway before rushing towards the stairs. Holding the banister, I ran downstairs to meet my sister in the foyer. Cold air stopped me three steps down as I turned to face the landing. No one was there, but prying eyes snapped on the back of my head. Watching me, it felt awful, a hatred swarming in the air. As I went to step down the second stair, I felt hands on my back, rough nails digging into my shirt and skin. I called out, turned to command it to back off when a force pushed me forward. I struggled to grip the staircase banister, but my purse flew down and smacked the wall. I came after it; my leg bent to an awkward angle as I fell forward, my head crashing to the wooden stairs, and my back curled into a ball. I heard something snap as I finally landed roughly, and the stickiness of blood began to exit my once-unharmed body.

I screamed out in pain; the breath in my lungs burned on fire. My sister's footsteps rushed towards me, screaming for my name as I struggled to look forward. Above me, I noticed a woman wearing low-raising jeans and a long-sleeved crop top showing her thin midriff stomach, piercing and long blonde hair with narrowing dark eyes staring back at me.

"Abbey!" I heard in the distance, yet Stacey's eyes were in front of me, her cell phone pressed to her ear. "No, I didn't move her. She is having trouble breathing,"

The young woman moved swiftly away, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor above me. My sister gasped out loud as she peered over my curled fallen body, looking above me on the second-floor landing. You won't find her, Stacey. You won't find the woman in the jeans wearing high heels. I tried to sound off and call out to Stacy, but no words formed, just a grunt and groan. My head swam in pain; my eyes blacked here and there. I couldn't move my arms or my legs. I felt frozen, paralyzed in pain. She left only for a few seconds and returned with a blanket from my couch to cover me. She spoke to me softly; I could hear her, but no words would form from me. I tried to talk, but she would stop me. In the distance, I could hear sirens blaring down Deer Creek Road; I was sure the neighbor, Christina, would know something had happened by now.

The door barged open as Oak Ridge PD busted in. They called out as Stacey ushered them to hurry. She cried, trying to stay calm as the police ran to me. Young men in their thirties and maybe in their twenties ran to me and kneeled by me. Careful not to get my blood on their shoes or uniform. Paramedics came next, as the thirty-year-old cop rushed to Stacey to question her. Questions were thrown at me, but my words wouldn't come out. I slowly blacked out, letting the black dots surround me.