Saturday, November 23, 2013

Bail House

I'm the one who dared Zak to go into Bail House that night. I was twelve, and he was nine. What happened is my fault.

On a cul-de-sac lined with the wreckage of stripped-out foreclosures, nothing left but rotting wood and the ghosts of dreams, Bail House was a beacon. The lawn was always immaculate, the hedges pristine, the paint fresh. On garbage day, though, no garbage was ever set out. No cars ever occupied the long driveway. Bail House was the scariest house on the street, and I sent Zak through the door alone.
I waited until he got up to the door. He looked back at me with his eyes wide and I made a go on gesture. He knocked.
There was, of course, no answer.
He pushed the door open. Looked back again. He didn't want to go, I could tell. I did the go on thing again.
When he stepped inside, I bolted. Twelve and clever. Twelve and cruel. I ran, laughing.
I made it halfway down the street before I lost my breath. Not because of the running. I was twelve; I could run for years. It was the stench, rancid as rotting hog fat. The blackness that enclosed my eyes. The sound of spiders, and rats, and something wet and huge and ancient slithering in the walls around me.
Walls? I was outside in the cold October air.
But I was in there with Zak, too. In Bail House.
I've been there ever since.


This one for a reddit/r/writingprompts thing - scary story under 250 words

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