Elm's Street.
Eerie, creepy, mysterious.
What many, if not all, consider a street made for horror films. The picture perfect, average, run of the mill haunted street, with ghosts and ghouls behind every rickety, rotten squeaky door, witches and goblins as your neighbors, and the undead lying right beneath your feet, ready to reach out and snatch your ankles once the clock strikes midnight.
But things aren't always what they seem.
You see, only one block down from this ghastly Elm's Street, there was another street. One that was the exact opposite of the street aforementioned. That was where the sun beamed down on the frolicking children below, bright, cheerful flowers bloomed at the front of every doorstep, and the neighbors all chat with each other from their front porches.
Many visited this joyful street, and many lived there as well. In fact, there wasn't a single empty house on that street, and they were famous for never moving out too.
But even a white rose has a dark shadow.
It was a normal Saturday morning. Eleanor Whittham was lounging in her backyard, enjoying the peace and quiet, something she rarely got to do anymore. Her life was a constant hustle and shuffle, what with her work as the local chief detective. Not to mention the fact that she had only just moved into this house a few weeks ago, and she still hadn't been able to spare enough time to unpack everything. She often found herself rustling through the many cardboard boxes in a hurry, just to find a shirt to wear, or a spare spoon to use.
However, the slow, relaxing mood here certainly made up for the rushing in the rest of her life. Basking in the warm sunlight, she could feel all the tension leaving her body, draining away like water out of a sink. She considered herself quite lucky to have been offered such a beautiful place to live. Her new sister-in-law had lived here previously, but decided to move in with Eleanor's younger brother after the two got married. Of course, selling the house would've been a pity, so the sweet girl had asked Eleanor to move in. That way, the couple could visit and stay whenever they pleased, while Eleanor could have a wonderful new place to stay. This cheery house definitely beat that old, cramped apartment she used to reside in.
But everything good must end at some point.
It was noon, 12:01 p.m., exactly, when it happened.
She had dozed off into soft, cotton candy daydreams when a bloodcurdling scream pierced her eardrums, startling her awake. Pressing a hand over her heart, she took several deep breaths, trying to calm her pounding, leaping heart. She listened again for anymore screams. There were plenty of lively children on this street, she consoled herself. It must have been them, she decided. Yes, yes, it must have been children just fooling around as usual, she thought.
But she couldn't get rid of that nagging voice hidden in the darkest corner of her mind that whispered otherwise.
The next day, it happened again.
She had been working in her paper and pile filled study, intent on finishing up her latest case. Stretching a bit, she glanced up at her clock, just in time to see it click into place. 12:01 p.m..
Once more, that hair-raising scream echoed against the pale grey walls, shaking her to the core.
But this time, it was a pitch deeper.
Too different to be the from the same person yesterday.
Too deep to be one of the little frolicking children.
This scream was a scream she had heard before.
A scream of bloody, violent, murder.
Throwing her papers down, she raced down the golden wooden stairs, bounded over the fluffy cream carpet, out the majestic navy blue door, and ran down the street, hair flying, coat billowing, and heart racing.
She could see it. The red wine slowly flowing out of the shatter glass, only to mix with a deeper, thicker red.
It was disgusting.
It was sickening.
It was revolting.
Hastily, with a trembling hand, she took whatever notes she needed for the final examination, and flew out of the scene of the crime as soon as she could. She didn't need much, seeing as the criminal had already been caught red-handed anyways.Though there was no club nearby, she could hear, feel the beating of loud bass and drums, rebounding through her body as that shrill shriek was kept on replay through her head. Although only seen for a second, she had already memorized the horror filled, shocked, stunned looks of her colleagues.
Tripping to a stop, she took a glance at her surroundings. Where to?
She couldn't simply pinpoint where the scream had come from with her bare ears. Taking in a gulp on air, she decided to simply observe each house down the street.
She couldn't let this go. It was her job. It was her payment.
Now then, she had her work cut out for her.
She promptly began strolling down the street in faked nonchalance.
A pale pink two-story house loomed before her.
This was the house. It had to be this one.
After an entire afternoon of walking up and down the street, dropping casual questions here and there, with various people, and receiving equally casual answers, she had narrowed down the houses to just one.
This one.
It was the one abnormal house on every street. It certainly didn't look like your typical "creepy house at the end of the street", but it was strange in the fact that no one had ever seen the actual inhabitant before.
Of course, everyone had shrugged it off, saying that it was an old, frail 90-year-old lady, who couldn't move so well.
But you can't trust everything people say, now can you?
Taking a deep breath, she began inching towards the bright red door. With each granite stepping stone she walked over, she felt an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach grow. As she neared the door, she saw what looked like an abandoned Frisbee. Another two steps forward, and it was what looked like a dog's leash, of some sorts. Another three, and she was at the front door, standing on a yellow welcome mat. Breathing in a calming breath, she ran the doorbell. It was now, or never.
No response.
Seconds ticked by.
Then, footsteps.
Strange, very strange sounding footsteps.
Somewhere a few houses down, an old grandfather clock chimed once. Twice. Three times.
The footsteps got louder.
Four. Five. Six.
A croaky voice called out, "Be right there, dear!"
Seven. Eight.
The door began to creep open.
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The last thing she saw was a sickly green, then orange, then, darkness.
The grandfather clock turned 12:01 p.m..
And yet another scream, this time of a woman, resonated down the street.
So, that is the tale of little old Elm's Street.
Eerie, no?
But then again, it is known for being quite...unique.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Finished! My first try at a horror story! To be honest, not my type of literature(seeing as I'm quite the scaredy-cat), as you can probably tell from the lack actual scariness and fright inducement.
Dedicated to my ghost story loving friend, from http://ohsnapitzclare.blogspot.com/
(Sorry if it didn't live up to the expectations, but again, I'm not particularly into that type of writing...)
I also wanted to apologize for the lack of activity recently! I wanted to update more, but I had to take a trip out of the country, so I lacked the time to sit down and just write. I shall try to update a few of my stories as soon as possible!
Also, please check out "With Coffee and Tears" below! The only short I managed to finished during my trip. Wrote it in the middle of the night on a whim.
No comments:
Post a Comment