This is a one-shot

The Waiting Game

You look down the corridor of an abandoned house. The house, people say, is haunted. Individuals have been dared year after year to come spend the night in this decaying house. None of them have ever returned. Night is falling, and your hands are shaking as your friends (the ones who dared you to do this) close the heavy front door, blocking out a majority of the waning light. The corridor is long and narrow. The carpeted floor cushions your footfalls. On either side of you portraits hang with searching eyes that follow your every move as you creep by. Each one pictures and individual around your age. You try not to look at them. Something touches you lightly on the arm, and you whirl around ready to make a run for your life. You heart beats wildly, and you mentally kick yourself as you catch the old coatrack you nearly knock over. It seems as though the frantic beating in your chest can be heard throughout the silent house. You take a deep breath to steady yourself and continue on.

Darkness seems to swallow you as the last of day's light dies. You pull out a small flashlight from the pocket in your jacket. With a click the yellow light cuts through the night. You have the feeling of being followed, a prickling on the back of your neck. You throw glances over your shoulder and look for any hint that someone or something might be watching you, hiding just behind the shadows and out of sight.

You reach the end of the corridor trying to ignore how loud your footsteps are. Another hallway branches off to your left, another to your right. Straight ahead is a door hanging open to reveal a large bedroom. Wanting to avoid the eerily life-like eyed of the hanging pictures, you walk into the bedroom. Your breath catches and you jump as something moves directly beside you. You let out the breath you are holding and smile at yourself in the full-length mirror framed delicately in gold. You step further into the room. You fail to notice how your reflection remains watching you from glass that should be empty. Other than a small bed with a quilt that has yellowed with age, you see that the white paint on the walls is chipping and has gone slightly green from mold. You find only some old, moth-eaten clothes and books in the closet. A small window resides next to an old wooden rocking chair. Through your relief comes disappointment. You had been expecting more than this from a "haunted" house.

You yawn and put a still shaking hand over your mouth. Exhaustion creeps in after your adrenaline has left, but you refuse to sleep. You don't even want to blink. You sit down on the bed and shine you flashlight around the room. Shadows dance all around you to a melody you can't hear. You flashlight flickers and dies. In the infinitesimal amount of moonlight streaming through the dirty window, the shadows grow more restless and become agitated. You feel the temperature dropping rapidly and can now see your breath coming out in fast puffs of white. The wind outside picks up and starts to howl. A fissure appears at the bottom of the window. You watch as it grows and spreads farther up the glass. You stand up.

Silence. The only thing you can hear is your fast heartbeat and your own raspy breathing. The window blows inward sending shards of glass into the air. You duck to avoid the sharp fragments. Streaks of red light soar about the room, shrieking in a destructive rage. The enormous mirror crashes to the floor and shatters. A figure begins to rise from it. You find your voice stolen by the squall as you try to scream. The door bangs shut as you run to it. You turn around to watch massive figures rise up out of the closet. They reach for you as they get nearer. You pull the door open and sprint down the corridor. You don't dare look back. The portraits' hands reach out of their frames, desperate to seek purchase on your clothes before being blown down by the wind. When you finally see the exit coming closer ever so slowly, you push against the gale even harder. Your hand feels the cool metal of the handle just before the figures reach you. They drag you back into the house, and the wind falls silent, its mission completed.

Like the individuals before you and the ones before them, you are never heard from again. The house repairs itself to the way it was when you first arrived. There is no evidence of the events that have taken place. You join the portraits on the wall, waiting with them for the next one to venture into their dwelling. You are now part of the waiting game.

a/n I wrote this in seventh grade. I found it and did a few updates. enjoy.