Crashbox

A very short ghost story...

I approached the house in the cool evening breeze. The branches above my head swayed softly, as I pushed through the chest-deep grass. Reaching the old house I crawled under the overgrown lilac bushes to the gaping front door, and slipped inside. It was dim and empty except for the springs from an ancient mattress and the arm of a rocking chair. Musty air hung about the walls and the remains of wallpaper lay slack and tattered against the wall. The crickets which had been loudly chirping in the twilight air suddenly ceased their song. Standing stiffly I thought I heard a creak from the room behind the stairs. I wished now that I had not come here alone; for I was not alone now. There was a step on the floor and a shadow fell across the opposite wall. It stood just behind the edge of sight in the doorway. I had no breath, I looked wildly for an escape; seeing the window behind me I dashed toward it spasmodically. Crashing through the empty frame and into the haggard bushes below I caught a glimpse of the figure in the kitchen. Time for an instant was frozen, me tumbling through space, heart throbbing with fear, staring into the hollow eyes of a girl in a black dress bleeding from a large knife stuck deep in her breast. I thrashed through the half-dead lilacs and waving grass and never stopped running until I was over the third hill. Her face did not leave me even after nightmares stopped, and to this day I wonder if she was dying then or if she had died long ago.