Hopefully another good little one-shot scary story…inspiration from a picture that I believe was untitled…sorry I don’t remember, but it was given to me in my English class and I wrote this little story about it…

The Stairway

The doll’s clothing is still soft in my hands. Although I would never admit it to her, I always envied the way her nimble fingers manipulated the fabric. Trying on different outfits for various occasions this doll went everywhere with my sister…Well…almost everywhere.

Unready to face those memories and emotions I close off the door in my mind leading into the past Just content to sit and fiddle with the fancy fringe of the matching pajama set my sister last dressed the doll in. I rock the doll back and forth marveling at the eyelid motion. Opening and closing. A pitied laugh escapes my lips as I blink back at the doll, ignoring the stinging wetness threatening to escape my eyelids.

I continue to play with the doll, fingering the fringe and watching the lids roll, until I hear their voices. The three of them gathered in the kitchen, just on the other side of the door at the foot of the stairs.

“Damn shame he wasn’t in there with ‘em.” The man’s low voice rumbles out with slurred speech. I listen shamelessly. If they are disrespecting my family and me I would rather be aware of it. Their false promises of love and protection said through masks of fake smiles wound more painfully then this harsh truth being spoken behind a closed door.

“At least we get this magnificent house dear,” the woman’s voice is low and raspy. She coughs again. A habit she practices constantly. Many years of cigarettes rotting her lungs makes her breathing hitched and shaky. I can taste the smell on the air even through the door. It doesn’t bother her that she smokes in her sister’s clean house. Soon I know that the air born grime protruding from her lips will muck the polished walls my father took so much pride in re-crafting.

I remember standing on a wooden chair at his side being the “special helper.” Providing him the lighter tools and the nourishment he required. We would make believe that we were real construction workers, dressed in a pair of blue overalls and protective masks.

When we would stop to take a break he rolled up his sleeves revealing strong arms. Effortlessly he lifted me from my chair, my make believe ladder. Then we dined on my own craftsmanship of peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches. His hands taught me to thinly spread the peanut butter on both sides so that the jelly didn’t soak into the bread, making it unpleasantly soggy. Shaking my head to clear the foggy memory I return my focus to the kitchen listening intently to the discussion.

“That sister of mine always got what she needed and I don’t have any qualms in saying it was about time she got her turn of hardships.” My aunt continued to drawl out. Always envious of her younger sister my aunt grew spiteful of her more beloved sibling.

My mother married my father shortly after she finished college lost in a high school sweetheart kind of love that lasted them through the ten years that they were married. Both my parents were successful in their jobs, gathering promotions and important connections were easy for them because they were so friendly and hard-working. My parents worked painstakingly to buy this grand sized house for our family to live in. So hearing my aunt call my mother lazy and ungrateful angered me, but I remained silent to continue my eavesdropping on my relatives.

“I’m just glad Nicholas wised up and gave me his room. No way was I going to sleep in my cousin Sarah’s bed.” I grit my teeth as she talks ruthlessly about my sister and me. My older cousin Rachel is a brat spoiled beyond the stretches of human compassion. Even I could not bear the idea of sharing my sister’s Jack-and-Jill adjoined bathroom with her. She could have it all. I found my sanctuary high amongst the dust in the attic where the smell of smoke and the high-pitched whines rattled beneath me, never daring to enter the upper recesses of our large house.

“I ‘spose you’re right.” My uncle drawled. I wonder why every time he speaks I have the strongest urge to roll my tongue around my words carefully. I am fearful of developing his speech impairment by listening so captivated to his talk.

“The only downside of course is that…”

“Their brat Nick owns everything.” I muffle my own gasp at this news.

‘I own everything?’ I silently wonder. Suddenly merry visions of myself standing alone in the house taunt my imagination. If I truly owned the property then I could relieve my relatives of their rooms here. I could live on my own. Even if they wished to seize control of what I owned, law would prevent them from ruining my life. These plans raced through my mind at a light speed causing excitement to bubble forth. Until my aunt uttered the next phrase,

“Good thing Child Services granted us the responsibility of looking over the poor child.” The last few words were said with such malice and sarcasm that their blades of cruelness shattered my hopes of freedom from these horrible people.

“I think the best thing to do would be to have a little accident in which Nick joins his family in the grave, I know Marta let’s kill the boy!” My uncle’s words cut me to the bone and my soul bleeds. Any kind of hope of affection from my supposed guardians is squandered under their voracity. The following silence is deafening and the damn that I have built within my mind to protect me from the truth suffers under the blow. Thoughts and feelings like water rushes forward and I am suddenly drowning within the depths of my mind.

I remember waking up in the morning and sneakily scurrying into my sister’s room. There shuffled under the covers on her bed was her favorite doll. I giggle ferociously as I swipe the item without her notice, quickly scampering back to my room to hide my prize from her before she awakes. As I spin around my room contemplating the options of hiding places my door swings open. But I am relieved to see my dad standing there with a knowing look upon his face. With out a word he winks at me then slowly backs out of my room and his footsteps resound as he pads his way down to the kitchen.

A few minutes later I climb back into bed just as my mom opens my door to check in on me. She comes over to the edge of my bed and peers down at me. Barely suppressing my laughter I attempt to make my breathing look as slow and even as possible. After a few painful moments of inspection she kisses my forehead and makes her way down the stairs into the kitchen. Today is Sunday. On this glorious day my sister and I are given the option of sleeping in and having the day free or rising early to visit church.

My sister being the little angel that she is always chooses to waste her day with folded hands in an uncomfortable dress head bowed in a pew. I on the other hand have mastered the trick of feigning sleep and then enjoying the house as my castle. I close my eyes and day dream of the fun activities I will participate in once they leave for church.

Hours have passed and the euphoria of my fun filled day is starting to fade. Every few seconds I glance over at the clock trying to avoid the panic settling in on my chest. The weight is heavy and it hurts to breathe so I sit gasping for air alone on the couch in the sitting room worrying and wondering where my family is. Finally the telephone rings, shattering the silence. After I jump from the sudden noise, I sigh in relief because this will be my mother gushing out apologies and explanations as to why the sun is starting to set and they are not back yet. Or so I assume when I cheerfully pick up the telephone and in a sing-song voice say ‘hello’ to the person on the other end.

“Son, are you Nicholas Stansifer?” A gruff professional voice questions. I gulp largely at the seriousness his voice suggests before replying a meek affirmative.

“I am calling to inform you that your parents and sister have been involved in a massive car accident on the corner of Charlotte and Ruin St.” He continues strictly.

“Well…can I talk to my dad then?” I ask. I start to long for the soothing comfort of my father’s voice, the emotionless professional is starting to scare me with his stiffness and the great pause after my request.

“I am afraid that will not be possible, because your family, that is to say that the accident was fatal and your family is dead…” I don’t remember more of what the man was trying to tell me because I dropped the receiver. I stepped backwards from the plastic device shouting blasphemy at me.

‘They couldn’t be dead, not my dad, mom and sister.’ I just kept shaking my head in disbelief. A joke, a lie, something, anything but the harsh cold reality. No savior came and my carefree youth fluttered away out of the open window.

I jolted out of my memories at the sudden sound of scraping chairs coming from the kitchen. When Child Services came to retrieve me in order to decide who was to take custody I was apparently mumbling incoherently and rocking myself alone in the attic.

I ran towards the attic now, as the door into the kitchen slowly creaked open. Scampering up the steps I attempted to block out the scratchy voices below, beckoning me towards them with their sweet lies. Quick to formulate mirages of love and warmth for my broken heart and starving mind they attempted to lure me into their trap. Their soft voices grew more desperate as my pounding footsteps carried me further.

Soon shouts follow my escape route and I hear Rachel screech as she steps on my sister’s doll that I abandoned on the staircase below me. Without time to prevent them from following me I rush up to the attic and climb over boxes until I am standing on the far side of the room from the door next to the third story window.

“Nicholas,” my aunt begins to plead, “Why did you run away? We only want to talk to you.” She calmly speaks while my uncle forces open the door to my only sanctuary.

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” I shout my last defense to this prison of terror they create for me.

“Nick come on over here, we’ll all go downstairs and get our money…er...I mean to say Nick is that we’ll talk about our situation.” My uncle pushes his way past the cardboard boxes into the room slightly inching towards me. He extends his arm for me to grab.

I glance up checking the sincerity of his face and my fear escalades at the pure hatred and lack of common sense his eyes portray. I back against the wall as I feel the air in the room grow thin. The smoggy smell of my aunt’s smoking pollutes the room and I start gasping to breathe.

“Nick,”

“Nick,”

“NICK!!” They just keep screaming at me and I feel my mind disconnecting from my body as my hands fumble with the latch on the widow. I ignore their shrieks as I climb out the window and without looking back I dive off the edge of the rooftop. As the air rushes past my face and thru my hair, I only feel lifted from the desperate attempt of my relatives to fulfill their own greedy desires.

I don’t hear the sickening crack of my skull braking when I hit the cement driveway out in front of the house. I am spared the disapproving comment from my aunt about how the drive will need to be repaved because my crimson blood will surely leave a nasty stain. I only feel my heartache lifting.

Clutching my sister’s doll in my hand I run gratefully towards the warm beckoning light.