The Haunted House

I laughed when the wooden door slammed shut behind me. It seemed weirdly funny, melodramatic. For about two seconds, it was hilarious. Then I realized how dark it was, I did not have my phone or a flashlight, and a creepy crawling thing was on the back of my neck, measuring me for lunch. I began moving that doorknob back and forth like mad, to no avail. Not a hint of sunlight came into this mausoleum of a room. I began wailing, pleading, promising God all kinds of things I never planned actually doing. The damned bug went down my back, giving me the willlies. I began the slap around, jump and shake a determined bug dance. The hair on the back of both arms stood at attention a second later when I heard a deep cough about six inches behind me. Being alone was terrifying. Not being alone suddenly felt six trillion times worse. I pictured the axe that would slice my head in half. Would I feel it, or would it happen so swiftly that I would not even notice the bullets in my heart? “Let me get that for you,” the deep voice said. The wooden door swung open, giving a bit of light. Tempted for about two seconds to turn and see who was back there, I bolted out that door as if two tigers were on my heels, nipping at my worthless pelt. I never looked back. This happened twenty-three years ago, and I still hear that deep voice in my nightmares.