The following is a top entry from our A Daring Halloween contest in conjunction with Ghost and Paranormal. Congratulations to our winner!
The full list of winning entries can be found here.
*
PROMPT
It's All Hallows' Eve, and you're gearing up for the most eventful night of your life. While young children are out trick-or-treating, you've made your way to the one house people always skip. It's the abandoned mansion, rumoured to be haunted.
Dared by your friends to spend a night in the haunted house, will you survive the night, or will you uncover the truth behind the rumours?
*
Miss Terry
Tonight is the night.
Dressed in a short black leather dress, I'm glad my parents are out until tomorrow so they couldn't see my . . . bold costume. My hands are shaking a little, but my friends are watching my every movement as I fix my cat ears, so I need to pretend like this is any other day.
It's not.
From the window I could see the energy of children and adults alike as they go trick-or-treating. Lucky them.
"Done yet, baby girl?" Tessa pops a bubblegum in her mouth. She and Michelle are sexy bananas-in-pajamas tonight. I'd have worn the same if they didn't pick out my costume.
I pretend to claw her eyes out. She giggles, snuggling closer to London, her boyfriend, who didn't dress up. I sneak a glance at Blake, my boyfriend slash vampire of the night. He's low-key glaring at Blake, and I'm suddenly reminded why I'm doing this in the first place.
"You sure about this?" Michelle plays with her curls, a nervous habit. "It's okay to back out."
Again, I look at Blake. He started all this crap. The dare was supposed to be a joke, but he grabbed onto it like the jerk he is and challenged me.
And I never back down from a dare.
I know he dared me because he knows I'll accept no matter what, and by doing so will give him an ample amount of time to screw Tessa.
Why did I accept then?
Ask that to my pride.
With a faux confident smile, I say, "Let's go, pussies."
*
"Don't worry, we'll be right outside the gates," Michelle assures me as she rechecks the earpiece for the nth time.
Blake snorts. "No, we won't. We'll go back to your house and monitor you from there."
I glare at him. "More like they will look out for me while you fuck Tessa in the garage."
I had to say it while the Yale Mansion looms behind me, its huge windows like mouths opened in warning. I had to, or fear will consume me.
I barely notice Tessa's sudden paleness. "What?" she says, her voice shrill like when she's lying.
"When I get out of that house tomorrow, it's already done between us, Blake." I glare at Tessa, scowling. "Leave London alone. He doesn't deserve this."
Without waiting for their response, I enter the gates of Hell itself. I feel like Dante when he crosses the vestibule of Inferno. My heart hammers against my ribcage, my knees wobbly as I walk deeper into the abandoned property.
I almost miss Blake's remark. "I hope you rot in there, bitch!"
I hope you break your dick.
*
For decades, the Yale Mansion has been the epitome of opulence.
This, however, changes when Terry Yale, the madame of the house, is reported dead. One by one, the mansion loses its grandeur along its members. This tragedy only worsens the rumors circling the property. People have been allegedly hearing screams in the middle of the night emanating from the house of horror itself, and that anybody who'd dare enter do not ever return. Of course, this tale is fancied with the name "Miss Terry" to account for the late owner and the mystery surrounding the haunted mansion.
Leaves rustle as I continue forward. The cold breeze, along with the sense of foreboding, chill me to the bones.
This is a bad idea.
I stop at the front door. With a sigh, I pushed it open, half hoping it'd be locked.
The door groans as I crack a few more spaces, as if it's hating me for disturbing its sleep. Swallowing the bile that threatens to burst from my mouth, I slip inside---
---and is welcomed by absolute emptiness.
The eerie silence, along with the dim light illuminating the whole area, sends a shiver down my spine. Cobwebs cover the high ceilings, where an intricate chandelier hangs unused. A long staircase runs along the far wall, leading up to darkness.
I clench my fists. There's nothing to be afraid of, Sanya. Nothing at all.
I jump as a loud ring fills my right ear. "Sanya? You there?" Michelle's voice floods into my earpiece as I answer the call.
"Yeah." My breath catches at the word. I cleared my throat and try again. "Yeah."
"Okay, good. We're in your room, but we can't see anything from here but darkness."
I frown. My house is fairly near, and considering this whole first floor is illuminated, the mansion is supposed to give even a hint of light from my room.
Swallowing my trepidation, I say, "Look closer. It's practically glowing in here."
"Can you try moving to the windows then? Wave or something?"
Numbly, I walk over to the curtains. They're fancy, really, but smell like rot. With a suppressed gag, I hold up one end.
Ice freezes all my blood. "Fucking hell."
"What?"
I barely choke the words out. "There are no windows, London."
*
"We're coming down to get you," London says.
My back is against the door, my knees to my chest. "No." I wince at the weakness of my voice. "I'm fine, so please stop worrying."
"Stop worrying? Somehow, the windows are turned to walls inside, and the front door is freaking locked. How is that fine?" Michelle panicking doesn't help at all.
And yes, the front door is locked. Shortly after my interesting discovery that all windows are covered with concrete, I'm more than willing to leave, but - surprise, surprise - the door is locked. I don't know how that fucking happened, but now I'm trapped in here and I'm scared.
"You can't do anything right now," I reply halfheartedly. "Just trust me, okay? I'll ask if I need help."
"All right," London says the exact same time the lights went out.
*
It's about one o' clock when the whimpers begin.
Since it's pitch black, I stay on the floor like the smart person I am. I won't bethat stupid girl who'd roam around this place and get killed. It's bad enough that I feel like someone's watching me with all this darkness. I won't be recklessly brave and confront whatever's possibly in here.
"Any update?"
I sigh, bumping my head against the door. "I'm practically blind, so don't ask me."
"Can't you use your phone?"
"And have it die on me before I get out of here?" I let out a mirthless chuckle. "No, thanks, Michelle."
"I don't get why you won't just give up," says London. "I can always break up with Tess."
I roll my eyes although he can't see me. "Well, excuse me for--"
A faint sound causes me to straighten. Drip. Drip. Drip. "Wait, guys." I don't pause and take off the earpiece.
Muscles tensed, I listen, every sense but my sight on high alert. My heart beats twice the consistent noise. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"No . . ." A moan. A moan that's definitely not from me.
A curse slips from my tongue as I stand up (almost tripping over my own feet) and tread to the foot of the staircase. As if on cue, the sound gets louder. If I focus enough, I could see the faintest hint of light upstairs.
Shaking, my hands fly to my mouth, a sob clogged in my throat.
I'm not alone in here.
*
I never want to run upstairs. Not after what I heard. But it's all I can do when a cold hand touches my bare back just as I'm about to return back to wallowing in self-hate against the front door.
Even now as I frantically open doors in the second floor with only my phone lighting my way, my friends are quiet. "Fuck," I gritted out after another failed attempt. I don't dare look behind me.
Just as I'm about to give up, the fifth doorknob turns. I race inside and lock it behind me---
---only to face a bloody fucking corpse.
A scream sits at the back of my throat as I absorb the sight before me. An old woman, face swollen beyond recognition, sags against the chains holding her arms above her head. The yellowish light accentuates the bruises on her legs and the blood on her tattered dress.
As if it couldn't get any worse, she lifts her head and stares at me. "Help," she whispers, barely conscious.
It's only then I notice the familiar sound. Drip. Drip. Drip. There, at her feet, is a pail, where her blood trickles down.
Torture devices fill the room. A table filled with knives, clamps, handcuffs. A set of whips against the wall. I couldn't help it - I gag, blood and decay filling my nostrils.
"He's coming," she wheezes, chains rattling. "Kill me, please." Blood dribbles down her chin. "Please."
I flinch as someone bangs on the door. I fumble with my phone, only realizing that my earpiece is nowhere to be found and ---
--- and my phone has died.
Terror fills me to the core. No, no, no. I search the room and scramble to snatch a spiked baseball bat on the floor. "Shh," I tell the woman as I hide behind one of the tables.
The doorknob rattles and swings open. Of course he has the key. Of course. A man, with limbs like pairs of sticks, stumbles inside, knife in hand. He regards the woman with amusement. "Where's the girl, Terry?"
She merely groans.
I almost choke at the name. Terry? As in, Terry Yale? Oh, my God. She must be at least 60 years old. How can she still be alive?
I must've let out a sound because his head turns to my direction, a grin on his lips. Sunken eyes, greyish skin, unkempt hair . . . "There you are," he croaks.
Bolting up, I throw Terry a look. I'll come back. I run out the door, the man's footsteps close behind me.
I'm about to reach the stairs when a hand pulls me back and slams me to the floor. A scream escapes me as he swipes the blade across my arm. "You think you can escape?" he growls, breath rancid. He carves another line to my forehead. I writhe beneath him, blindly clawing at his face. Blood pumps in my ears, fear grips my heart.
I can't die here. I can't. I can't.
Pushing with all my might, I stand up and retrieve the baseball bat from the floor. Swinging, I flinch as it comes in contact with his face, the spikes taking away his flesh. He tries to stab me, but I hit him again, and again, until he rolls down the stairs in a gory heap.
Shaking, I stare at the body and barely register the sirens coming this way.
*
"Are you okay?" Michelle asks, London beside her.
I stare at my hands. A hundred wash, yet I can't seem to erase the blood from them. A week has passed since that stupid dare. A week of constant nightmares.
Terry Yale passed away when the authorities brought her to the hospital. They say she's been suffering for years, going in and out of recovery stage because of Beaufort Yale, her own great-grandson. He's a psychopath, and he's still alive. After all that, he's still alive and contained in an asylum.
The police collected bones from the locked doors on the second floor, along with preserved human internal organs.
You think you can escape?
My fists grip the sheets. "Please leave," I whisper.
Soon, footsteps recede from the room.
*
One Year Later
"I'm home."
London rises up from the couch to give me a chaste kiss. "A package was delivered to you, by the way." He points to the kitchen counter, where a small box sits.
With another kiss, I pull away to open the package. It's a cute thing with a small red bow, but no return address.
I lift the top, a folded paper inside.
Two words. One promise.
I'm back.