Hi guys! I have a spooky story for Jenelle’s contest! I think it will properly send a little shiver down your spine…It will probably be the scariest story you’ll ever read, so…be prepared…*ominous music begins to play*
The trees spindly fingers snapped in the wind, an eerie tune that whispered in the back of one’s head, inescapable.
It prickled across Grace‘s skin, making her shudder. Her heart thumped viciously. She stood quietly, fearfully on the porch, nervously twiddling with her apron strings, watching as a man kneeled in the cemetery, his cloak fluttering in the gale, his pale skin illuminated by the moon’s glow.
The wind fluttered crisply through her fair hair, blowing it into her face, obscuring her vision. She felt a hand on her shoulder and whipped around to see George.
“George,” she said, quivering. George said nothing, but gripped her harder. She imagined his knuckles to be white as snow.
They both watched as the man stood abruptly and slowly ambled away. They promptly lost sight of him.
“Why did you bring us here, George?” Grace cried indignantly. “Why couldn’t we have picked a better home? Somewhere far away from any cemetery or mysterious man?”
George sighed shakily. Though it was dark, Grace saw the fear in his eyes. “You know why, dear one.”
Annie and Alice slowly crept out from their hiding place beside a potted plant that had been long dead. “Mother? Father?” Annie whispered. “What is the matter? Are we in danger?”
The wind picked up, whistling angrily, clouding the world in a dark, confusing blur. It swept through the gravestones, singing its eerie song under the moonlight.
“Get in the house immediately,” George snapped, his fingers like ice.
The ladies shivered and whimpered as they hoisted their skirts up and hustled inside.
George followed closely behind them, and then locked the door behind him when they were all safely inside. The night was growing darker and the moon seemed to focus on the graveyard, giving it a ghostly spotlight. The wind howled, begging to enter the house, rattling the half-shattered windows.
A sudden, ferocious clabber at the door pierced through the irritated wind.
Annie and Alice screamed, and Grace snatched their wrists and dragged them away from the door, holding them tightly. Her face was pale as death.
George seized his pistol from a small drawer in a rickety old nightstand, cocked it carefully, quietly, and slowly made his way to the door.
“I don’t like this place,” Alice cried, her voice shaking with sobs. Grace hugged her daughters firmly.
The door burst open, filling the house with the cold, angry wind. The man from the graveyard stood in the entrance, furiously rubbing his hands across his arms, shaking violently from the cold.
George roared and pointed his gun at the man’s heart.
The man’s head shot up, and his screech overwhelmed the drone of the wind.
The Taylors vanished without a single sound.
The wind continued to pound against the windows, filling the house with a haunting symphony.
The graveyard looked distant and watery, like a dream.
Brian unsteadily took his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed his friends’ number.
“Come and pick me up.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Now.”
“What? What’s wrong, I thought you were visiting your grandpa’s grave?”
“I saw…I saw…”
The world faded to black.
“…Hello? Brian? You still there…?