don’t believe in ghosts.
I do. Now I do.
Linda stepped past the hedge and saw the Freeman house. Fear crept up her spine, prickled the back of her neck. For a moment, she was in darkness, roped to the banister, the bony, naked man staring down at her. She clutched the milk carton to her chest, the gasoline sloshing inside.
Don’t wait. Don’t think about it.
She hurried up the sidewalk to the gate of the low picket fence. Turning around for a final check, she saw nobody. She opened the gate and rushed toward the house. The wooden stairs moaned under her weight. The blackness of the porch engulfed her.
Her hand found the door handle – cold as if the house’s inner chill had passed through it. She pressed the upper plate . It sank. The tongue snapped back. With a slight push, the door started to open. It stopped abruptly with a shake of metal, and Linda saw the dim outline of a padlock just above her head.
Someone, probably the realtor, had come by since the night she was here, secured the front door.
She yanked the lock, twisted it, determined that it was securely latched. Her fingertips explored the mounting. Six screws held it in place, three in the doorframe and three in the door itself.
She pulled the pistol from her jeans. She slipped its barrel through the hoop of the lock hasp, and was about to tug when she realised that using it like a crowbar would mar the finish. Her father would know someone had used it. So she freed the barrel. She pushed it into her jeans again, glad to feel the return of its hard warm pressure.
Leaving the porch, she hoped for a moment that she wouldn’t find a way into the house.
No, she had to get inside.
Burn the heart of it.
Burn the stairway.
She ran alongside the house, keeping close to the wall.
Burn the stairway. Let the flames trap him upstairs, if he’s still lurking there. Let them wrap his hideous flesh, make it blister and snap, boil his eyes.
She raced up three stairs to the back door. There was no padlock. Its four windows shone in the moonlight. She rammed the gun muzzle through the pane on the lower right. As she reached through the hole, groping for the inside knob, her hip nudged the door open.
Not locked at all! Not even firmly shut.
She withdrew her arm, pushed the door wide, and stepped into the kitchen. Bits of glass crunched under her shoes. She halted, listening, then realised he might’ve heard the shattering panel, might even now be rising stiffly, reaching for his ax.
She hurried through the empty kitchen, down a passageway as chill and black as a cave, her ears keen for a sound from above. The stairway slanted down to her left. She sidestepped, peering up through the bars of its railing. Saw no-one. Rounding the newel post, she stared into the darkness at the top of the stairs where she’d first seen his pale shape standing motionless.
Linda pried open the carton. Holding her breath against the fumes, she began to splash gasoline on the lower stairs.
Somewhere above her, a floorboard creaked.
The quiet sound knocked her breath out. Numb with fear, she raised her eyes.
A dim shape seemed to grow from the top of the upper newel post.
A face.
Linda clamped her jaw tight to hold her scream inside. She swung out the carton, gas splattering the stairs.
The word ‘No’ floated down to her like a moan. Then the pale figure was lunging around the post. She flung the empty carton down. Clawing into her shirt pocket, she found her matches. She tore one free. The man was halfway down the stairs when it burst to life. She held its flame to the dark rows of match-heads. They flared, and she tossed the blazing pack at the stairs.
The gasoline erupted with a whup like a flag hit by a sudden gust. The fire reached up the man’s naked body. Screaming, he shielded his face and staggered back. He twisted away from the fire, fell, and scurried up the stairs shrieking, slapping his blazing hair. He vanished into the corridor, and another scream
I do. Now I do.
Linda stepped past the hedge and saw the Freeman house. Fear crept up her spine, prickled the back of her neck. For a moment, she was in darkness, roped to the banister, the bony, naked man staring down at her. She clutched the milk carton to her chest, the gasoline sloshing inside.
Don’t wait. Don’t think about it.
She hurried up the sidewalk to the gate of the low picket fence. Turning around for a final check, she saw nobody. She opened the gate and rushed toward the house. The wooden stairs moaned under her weight. The blackness of the porch engulfed her.
Her hand found the door handle – cold as if the house’s inner chill had passed through it. She pressed the upper plate . It sank. The tongue snapped back. With a slight push, the door started to open. It stopped abruptly with a shake of metal, and Linda saw the dim outline of a padlock just above her head.
Someone, probably the realtor, had come by since the night she was here, secured the front door.
She yanked the lock, twisted it, determined that it was securely latched. Her fingertips explored the mounting. Six screws held it in place, three in the doorframe and three in the door itself.
She pulled the pistol from her jeans. She slipped its barrel through the hoop of the lock hasp, and was about to tug when she realised that using it like a crowbar would mar the finish. Her father would know someone had used it. So she freed the barrel. She pushed it into her jeans again, glad to feel the return of its hard warm pressure.
Leaving the porch, she hoped for a moment that she wouldn’t find a way into the house.
No, she had to get inside.
Burn the heart of it.
Burn the stairway.
She ran alongside the house, keeping close to the wall.
Burn the stairway. Let the flames trap him upstairs, if he’s still lurking there. Let them wrap his hideous flesh, make it blister and snap, boil his eyes.
She raced up three stairs to the back door. There was no padlock. Its four windows shone in the moonlight. She rammed the gun muzzle through the pane on the lower right. As she reached through the hole, groping for the inside knob, her hip nudged the door open.
Not locked at all! Not even firmly shut.
She withdrew her arm, pushed the door wide, and stepped into the kitchen. Bits of glass crunched under her shoes. She halted, listening, then realised he might’ve heard the shattering panel, might even now be rising stiffly, reaching for his ax.
She hurried through the empty kitchen, down a passageway as chill and black as a cave, her ears keen for a sound from above. The stairway slanted down to her left. She sidestepped, peering up through the bars of its railing. Saw no-one. Rounding the newel post, she stared into the darkness at the top of the stairs where she’d first seen his pale shape standing motionless.
Linda pried open the carton. Holding her breath against the fumes, she began to splash gasoline on the lower stairs.
Somewhere above her, a floorboard creaked.
The quiet sound knocked her breath out. Numb with fear, she raised her eyes.
A dim shape seemed to grow from the top of the upper newel post.
A face.
Linda clamped her jaw tight to hold her scream inside. She swung out the carton, gas splattering the stairs.
The word ‘No’ floated down to her like a moan. Then the pale figure was lunging around the post. She flung the empty carton down. Clawing into her shirt pocket, she found her matches. She tore one free. The man was halfway down the stairs when it burst to life. She held its flame to the dark rows of match-heads. They flared, and she tossed the blazing pack at the stairs.
The gasoline erupted with a whup like a flag hit by a sudden gust. The fire reached up the man’s naked body. Screaming, he shielded his face and staggered back. He twisted away from the fire, fell, and scurried up the stairs shrieking, slapping his blazing hair. He vanished into the corridor, and another scream
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