Brikton Drive

A Tale Written By Arrelcain

Thunder rumbled in the distance as storm clouds slowly covered the sky above Brikton Drive. Lightning flashed and a wind kicked up, drawing the fall leaves into one spot. Another flash of lightning came, only there was no thunder. Then yet one more, and this one struck the leaves, setting them aflame.

The wind then blew harder and harder until it howled, not so loud that it woke up everyone on Brikton Drive but loud enough to catch the ear of anyone who happened to be outside. But there was no one to see the burning leaves form in a funnel shape caused by the wind.

The leaves spun faster and faster until one could have forgotten they were there. All that could be seen was a swirling funnel of fire. Then, just like that, the funnel dispersed. The burning leaves flew out in all directions, there flames put out by the slight drizzle that had just begun.

Where the funnel had once stood there was a figure, dressed in a black and tattered cloak. Due to the darkness of night and the shadow of his hood the face was not visible. The only body part that was visible was a pale hand with black veins that was fraught with blisters. The fingernails were long, sharp, and yellow. This hand held a long, thin knife which gleamed in the moonlight. A quiver of arrows and a bow hung from the figure's back, and it began to advance menacingly toward Number Five Forty-Two.

A particularly loud boom of thunder and a flash of lightning awoke David Colfer. He lived on Brikton Drive, at Number Five Forty-Two. Colfer glanced at the digital alarm clock by his bedside, seeing it was exactly 1 o'clock on Saturday morning.

Colfer sighed, sitting up. He would never get any sleep if the storm continued, and it showed no signs of stopping. He dragged himself into the bathroom, showered, and emerged feeling a bit more awake. Colfer was still not wide-awake so he went down the hall to the kitchen and began making a cup of coffee.

Then, just like that, the machine turned off. "What the...?" Colfer said to himself. The lights were still on, so what was going on? He took the phone from the receiver and put it to his ear. It, too, was not functioning. The clock wasn't working, and neither was the television.

Something strange was going on. This couldn't be a power outage, could it? The refrigerator worked, and so did all the lights. Colfer glanced at the sliding door.

There, behind the door, was a cloaked figure. The cloak was tattered and black, but what disturbed David the most was that it carried a long, gleaming knife. But, he blinked and the figure was gone from sight.

Had he imagined it? Or was it real? Colfer began breathing normally again, putting a hand against his chest. "My God....what was that?"

Then the doorbell rang. Colfer told himself not to open it, for fear it could be that same...whatever it was that had been standing behind the sliding door. After ringing the doorbell repeatedly, whoever was outside the door began, banging on the door.

Then it seemed to give up for a moment.

But then the knife came through the door. It was withdrawn seconds later, and an orange, bloodshot eye looked through the hole. There was an unearthly howl before the eye disappeared and a voice from nowhere rasped, "Give it to me."

David, almost mad with terror, screamed, "What do you want!?"

"You know what I want. It has been at this spot for centuries....and you're going to give it to me. And if you don't...." Colfer never heard the rest because he bolted back to his bedroom and opened his desk drawer.

He began throwing the contents all over the floor until he found what he had been searching for: an old revolver he had purchased in case of a robbery. This wasn't exactly a robbery but he would need it all the same.

The figure appeared at his bedroom window. "Don't use that gun,'ll regret it," the voice said mockingly.

How does it know my name? he thought.

Colfer pointed the gun at the figure and fired. The figure stumbled backwards, but otherwise didn't appear to be affected. He didn't understand. That shot went right where its heart should be and would have killed anyone instantly.

"I warned you, David..." it said again, in the same mocking tone. The figure produced a bow and nocked an arrow to it. Somehow the arrow burst into flame just before it crashed through the window and hit the desk.

Colfer fired again (he missed) before running from the room.

Four shots left.

The figure stood again at the sliding door, tearing away at the class with its bare hands. The glass was stained with black blood, and somehow it was almost done. Colfer had shut the door behind him, so the fire shouldn't spread very quickly.

Nocking another arrow to its bow, the figure fired again at the carpet in front of David. It didn't seem to want to kill him. Colfer ran down the stairs by the door, stopping. He was rooted to the spot from extreme terror. The figure had passed straight through the flames as if they weren't there and stood at the top of the stairs.

"If you cooperate, David, I can get you out alive. And I won't come back...if you don't I will come back. And I won't avoid killing you."

Colfer took out his revolver once more and fired the remainder of his shots straight into the figures hood. The flames behind it consumed the figure's cloak, and black blood dripped from beneath the hood.

It let out another howl as Colfer ran out the door, where there was a fire truck and two police cars. He had escaped.

Author's Note

This story isn't meant to go on from there. It is left there to keep you guessing what the figure had been looking for and if it comes back. The reason there isn't much description of the house is so you get the impression this is your house that David Colfer lives in. Except for the being near the kitchen and the door being down the stairs you should imagine this as your house.

As I said, the story is meant to keep you guessing and is meant to leave you with an unsatisfying ending. This is just a short horror story and I will consider this as finished. You should do the same, or continue the story in your own imagination.