The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James

the direction of the window, and it was strangely familiar. I could not turn my head; I only stood paralyzed, watching the door as it slowly swung to a halt.
    Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A familiar sound, but my brain was too wild to place it. It grew louder. I couldn’t breathe. As I gasped silently for air, I realized the metallic smell had grown stronger. And I began to shake with terror as I finally recognized the sound.
    Heels, barefoot, kicking against the wall. Something sat in the sill of the high window, and kicked its heels as it dangled its feet.
    It was behind me, only six feet away.
    I could turn. Now I could turn. I could see it. All I had to do was turn.
    I couldn’t move. I felt a strangled sob come from my throat. The heels kicked louder—summoning me, demanding my attention, wanting me to turn and see. I sobbed again. What kind of thing would I see, sitting in the window? Would it even be human?
    Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
I could not do it. It wanted me to look;
she
wanted me to look. But I could not. Sobbing again, I stood where I was and closed my eyes.
    The heels continued. The heat rose; I was not imagining it now, nor the metallic smell. I clenched my eyes shut, willing them not to open. Why? I didn’t know—only that at all costs I must not do it, must not turn and look. To turn and look would be a mistake. Every nerve in my body screamed it.
    Abruptly, the thumping stopped. A low sound came from the window, the echo of an angry groan, deepened by a muffling gurgle. It could have been a voice, but it was no voice any human had ever emitted. It gurgled wetly for a long moment, hissed, and was silent.
    I opened my eyes.
    The walls of the barn
pulsed
; there was no other way to describe it. They gave a great, fleshy bow inward, then out again. I stared in terror before I realized the heat was pricking my skin, becoming unbearable. Sensing the thing was gone from the windowsill, I finally turned around.
    The barn was on fire.
    Flames licked the walls, climbed to the ceiling; the ruined bales of hay were catching. As I watched, the flames raced toward the front of the barn; in seconds, they would engulf the only door.
    I screamed—something, I know not what, came from my throat—and finally unfroze. I scrambled toward the door, realizing as I ran that I would be leaving the recorder to burn.
    I stopped, undecided. The fire was licking the doorframe now, though the door was still passable; I might, perhaps, have a few precious seconds. I turned and ran for the recorder. Would someonecome? Couldn’t they see the fire from the house? I reached the recorder, which had stopped itself—how long had I been in here?—and slammed it into its suitcase, gripping the heavy handle with my slick hands. A sound came from overhead, and I looked up to see that fire had engulfed the roof, and one of the flaming rafters was falling straight down toward me.
    I started to run and lost my footing. My legs slipped out from under me and I landed hard on the floor on my left hip. The camera banged on my chest. The suitcase hit the floor next to me. I screamed and curled, covering my head with my arms in a futile attempt to guard myself, and waited for the blow to fall.
    And waited.
    Nothing happened.
    Perhaps, by some outrageous stroke of luck, the beam had missed me. I uncovered my head and prepared to run for the door again.
    I looked around me. The fire was gone; I was in the cool, silent barn again, alone, with wet mist on the windows. The flames, the burning beams, all of it had utterly disappeared.
    I looked up. The roof was as it had ever been, rafters intact. Stupidly, my panicked brain began to slow and calculate. Somehow, despite what I had just witnessed, there had never been a fire.
    I sat gasping, nearly sobbing with the fear that had not yet left my veins, my hip throbbing. Slowly, I stood. I collected the suitcase again. I looked about for my hat.
    Mrs. Clare’s voice came into my head.
She may try to