Halloween Story – Part 2

Black background with orange text diagonally across it saying Halloween Horror.  Font is Creepster Regular, a font similar to those used on old fashioned horror movie posters.

Second part of my Halloween Horror story – for the first part please click here: All My Friends Are Dead – Part 1

All My Friends Are Dead – Part 2

The sound of voices abruptly brought me back to the present.  I take one last look at Tiffany, a last goodbye and move on.  Almost immediately an old broken chair leg trips me up.  I decide to risk a momentary burst of light.  A quick switch on then off and I manage to freeze the image in my head.  As long as I hug the wall the way is clear, mostly.

I let my left shoulder brush up against the damp and peeling wallpaper as I stride forward, hoping to reach the end of the corridor before anyone should find me.  I’m careful not to lean on the wall for I can’t remember which doors were open and which were not.  The last thing I want is to fall into some dark dank room.  I reach the corner and pause.  This way leads to room 214 and another body.  Four doors down.

I shudder as I hear a shout.  It’s not too close but it reminds me I can’t afford to tarry.  I start walking and keep walking, ignoring every stub of my toes and every sliver of glass smashing under my sole. I rush past room 214.  I don’t want to look in and say goodbye this time.  The godawful mess is still too clear in my mind.

I had found Davy before Scott; he must have walked right past the room Davy was in.  Whether that was down to sheer luck or carelessness on Scott’s part I wasn’t sure.  When I came upon the room the door had been ajar.  A faint scratching noise behind it lured me into pushing it open.  I’m still not sure what had caused that sound.

The last time I had seen Davy alive he had been stuck-fast into one of his drink and drug fuelled tirades.  It was the only time he would expand beyond one or two word retorts.  It was a shame to see a mind as sharp as his withering away from being wasted day after day. Yet there could be no intervention from us.  No one could stop Davy when he really wanted to do something, no matter how dangerous or stupid.   

He stumbled about the room, his hands waving wildly about him as he continued his outburst.  I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen.  Eventually I lost my temper and gave up on him.  Perhaps, if I had had more patience, he would still be alive.

My final memory of Davy was of his head awkwardly bent up against a chest of drawers, tongue lolling out his silent mouth.  His stiffening hands clutched at his abdomen where a shard of mirror reflected his frightful expression back at him.  Blood had seeped through his t-shirt and onto the threadbare carpet.  In the poor light it had looked like a pool of black tar.  The smell of it, however, had been unmistakable.

Room 214 was now several doors behind me, though the memory still lurked in my mind.  Just a few more metres and one more corner, then I’ll be at the servants’ stairwell.  As much as I long to be away from this awful place, my footsteps slow as I approach the open doorway.  I look down into the grim darkness unable to see beyond the twists and turns of the staircase, but I already know what’s at the bottom.  Scott, poor Scott.

This time I must risk switching my torch on.  It would be deadly to try and descend in the gloom.  Even with the light leading the way, I make my way slowly.  My feet feel heavy as they hit each tread. Turning onto the last flight of steps, I see another light at the very bottom.  Within its beam a grimy white trainer is illuminated.  The further I descend the more of its owner I see.  Scott lies cold as the stone beneath him.

Like a bizarre, macabre crown blood ebbs out from under his head.  Mercifully his eyes are closed, and his face isn’t a distorted wreck like the others.  He would look almost peaceful if it weren’t for the violent scene around him.  More blood has spread out from his chest and is spattered across the brickwork.  A pocketknife lies in his palm, his arm outstretched.  He must have pulled the blade out as he died.

As I get closer to him, I hear a strange sound that makes me jump back.  I realise it’s the dull droning sound of a call ringing out.  His left hand is still clutched around his mobile phone.  I calmly reach down and hang up.  Calling anyone is fruitless now.

I look down to his other hand, I pick up the pocketknife.  I’m no longer worried about fingerprints but protecting myself from those that chase me.  My eyes rest on his serene features once more and I place my hand upon his cheek.  This time he doesn’t angrily swipe it away.  This time there are no angry words.

With a loud thud sounding somewhere up above, I realise there is no more time for farewells.  I flee from Scott and dash through the kitchens to the back door.  Thankfully, it is as broken as everything else in this place.  I quickly pass through, leaving the door wide open behind me.  I run round the perimeter of the building, aiming for the bicycles we abandoned on arrival. However, when my feet hit the crunch of the gravel driveway suddenly the blinding beams of headlights shine upon me.  I turn my back to them and run towards the nearby woodland.

“Police!  Stop!” I hear them shout but soon their voices are drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat.  I keep sprinting, not caring as my breath painfully rips through my chest.  Not caring as the branches and thorns tear at my blood sodden clothes.

My friends are all dead, I must escape.

Published by kaelawalker

30-something aspiring writer on the West Coast of Scotland. Inspired by nature, beautiful Scotland and my journey coping with physical and mental illness.

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