The House on Deer Creek Road: Part 3
I couldn’t look at Nyla. I couldn’t feel anything but cold all over. The shadow person stopped pacing and stood just behind us. It bent down, long arms spreading wide, resting its clawed hands on the back of the couch.
Real Life Ghost Stories: The Witch's Chair
Nervous footfalls, quickened from anxiety, make soft tapping sounds on the pavement only to be swallowed up in the night. The neighborhood is quiet, dark, sleeping. The trees loom overhead like skeleton arms reaching out to stop you. Turn back, they call out in silent voices. Go home.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?