Chills & Thrills Anthology

A Daring Halloween | Tell No One

  

Somewhere to the left, a clock is ticking. Slow, deliberate, as though it's counting down the seconds until something, whatever that is.

Darkness swirls around my head, enveloping me in a cloud. Stumbling, I reach out to the wall, patting it down, palms slapping cold, cold plaster. And yet I can't find a light switch.

Thump.

I jerk my head upwards, scanning the ceiling, heart racing a little faster, but I can't see anything.

Tick tock, goes the clock to the left.

Something probably fell upstairs, I tell myself as I shake off the uneasiness. I pull myself up straighter, square my shoulders, and walk down the hallway.

I think I'm in a kitchen. Through the hazy black I can see the shape of the chairs, the sharp corners of the table, a small calendar hanging above the sink, the page turned to the month of June.

It's October, I remind myself, and then I remember what happened to Kelsey's brother and why they had to move out.

A bitter shiver runs through me.

Thump.

My breath catches in my throat. What was that noise? Again, I glance at the ceiling to where a chandelier is, tiny glass pieces suspended in mid-air. They clink together, swaying slightly in an invisible breeze, and I have this horrid, fleeting thought that they will drop on me at any moment.

There is a ringing silence.

Tick tock.

WHAM!

Something whistles past my ear and slams into something to the right of me. I whirl around, heart in my mouth, throat feeling so tight that it blocks the scream.

There, pinned on the twenty-third of June, is a knife. Its handle protrudes from the paper, blade sunk right into the wood.

Tick tock.

My hands are curled into fists.

THUNK! A second blade burrows into the cupboard door.

A scream rips itself from my throat and I jerk into action, half-stumbling, half-running towards the door, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

There are slams behind me, a gust of wind. I fling myself forward, scrabbling around blindly for anything.

Anything that will get me out of here.

Then I'm in another room, and the door slams closed with a bang.

I launch myself at it, throwing my entire weight at the door, but it doesn't budge. Wincing at the throbbing of my shoulder, I lean back, defeated.

Silence settles. I flick the switch behind me but there's no flood of light, only cold, cold darkness.

There's something in the air, an uneasiness that makes my skin prickle as I survey the room.

This is the lounge; it's obvious from the slope of the L-shaped sofa—a tatty one that hasn't been thrown out—the empty space in the corner where the television should be, and the mantelpiece above the fire, which is black and filled with soot.

I squint, moving closer to the shelf. In rows, the whole way along are tiny photo frames, each one deliberately propped up with care and precision.

Doubt rises within me. Why didn't Kelsey's family take them away? But I keep the question down because curiosity is not good in the dead of night. It only gets you killed.