Scary Story: Chapter 2

By Kimberly Armstrong, 47, Moyock, N.C.

MOLLY SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in her chair.

Fear overtook her, swirling about like so many restless spirits. She gripped the table edge, suspending blood flow to her fingertips. Minutes passed. Except for the sound of her ragged breathing, all was eerily silent.

Had this happened earlier in the day, she would have attributed the source of the piercing crash to her incorrigible cousins. But just a short while ago she had checked on the mischief-makers and found them sleeping soundly, no doubt exhausted from their shenanigans.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up from the chair, which slid and screeched across the wood floor. Hesitantly, she advanced toward the back door. Through the window she witnessed a shroud of darkness. No street lights, no neighborly porch lamps offering a friendly incandescent beam.

Her mind was spinning. Did she dare step outside to investigate? Oh, how she wished Noelle could have accompanied her this weekend.

Perhaps she should call the police. But how humiliating it would be if they should determine the noise was only a rambling cat, or a possum, or a raccoon. What would her aunt and uncle think? Probably that she was a silly, scaredy-cat city girl. Anyway, wasn’t she forever attempting to convince her parents that she was a mature, responsible teenager? Now would be a good time to prove it. She must take control of the situation.

Scraaaape. Molly jumped. “Calm down,” she told herself. “It’s just the trees.”

Concealed by a dangling fly swatter, there was a light switch panel. Floodlights, she thought with relief.  She flipped the switch, and one dim bulb just outside the door flickered to life. Immediately a ghostly white moth was attracted and commenced frantic circles.

Surely there was a flashlight somewhere. She surveyed the cabinets, rummaged through the drawers. The glint from the blade of a butcher knife caught her eye. She grabbed it. Flinging open the pantry door, a mop and broom tumbled out simultaneously. She screamed. “Molly, get a grip,” she scolded.

Snatching the flashlight from a shelf, she stepped in the direction of the door. She was overwhelmed with terror at the hidden dangers awaiting her. Clutching the flashlight and knife, she reached for the doorknob. The knob felt as cold as a tomb in her sweaty palm. She began turning it ever so slowly.

Riiinnng! Riiinnng!

The telephone splintered the silence, shocking her so that the knife and flashlight fell from her grip, clattering to the floor. Trance-like, she turned and stared dumbfounded at the ringing phone.

Riiinnng! Riiinnng! Snapping out of her stupor, she hurried across the room.

Riiinnng! Riiinnng! Hand trembling slightly, she lifted the receiver. In a breathless whisper she managed to say, “Hello.”

There was static. A bad connection, maybe?

“Hello,” she said again. “Is someone there?”