by Peter Swift
18.
"Hello?" Stevie asked frantically, but the power to the phone—like the rest of the house—was gone.
"Not liking this," Angie said. She stood and looked out through the front window. "Not liking this one bit."
Lightning flashed again, and at the same time—thunder. A deafening, heart-stopping crash! Then the booming died down into a long, low rumble, and they heard the scream.
It was quiet at first, as though from a great distance, but quickly it grew louder. A long, high-pitched, horrible, inhuman wail. It came directly toward the house, drawing nearer and nearer! Louder and louder! There was a pause, but then it started up again, and now it was almost deafening!
"It's her! The broken girl!" Stevie yelled, grabbing Angie's forearm tightly. "She's coming back. Hide!"
He pulled her through the darkness, stumbling around furniture and bumping into tables. A lamp crashed to the floor, but Stevie didn't stop. He started to run up the stairs.
No! A giant red flag went up in his mind. She saw me there last night. She knows that's my room!
He backtracked to the closet under the stairs where he'd hung their jackets. They ducked inside and hid on the floor under the hanging coats. Stevie pulled the door almost shut, but left it open just a crack so he could see out through the space.
The cry continued, growing louder and louder, and then suddenly, it stopped.
"Stevie, I'm scared," Angie said. Her voice shook and her hands trembled as they clenched at his arm painfully. The bravado they had both felt earlier—ghost hunting and confronting Virginia Harcourt—was forgotten.
Silence came from outside of the closet door. The only sounds he heard were his own breathing and heartbeat, and a quiet whimpering from Angie. Was she crying? He pried his arm free of her grasp and pressed a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, and then—yes, he felt her warm tears on his hand.
A dull thud came from somewhere outside the house, and he heard a door slowly creak open. It wasn't the front door. Maybe the kitchen door? Then footsteps. Slow, lumbering footsteps and a scraping on the floor that sounded like someone dragging something, or limping badly, and Stevie remembered the broken girl on the driveway. The way her one leg twisted out from the knee at a terrible, unnatural angle.
The sound was in the living room now, where moments before the two friends spoke on the phone with Mr. Stark. It drew nearer. Was it coming for them? Did it know right where they were?
Lightning flashed, and Stevie saw the figure. His breathing stopped completely.
Her silhouette walked toward them slowly. Her tangled hair draped limply over her shoulders. One leg supported all her weight as she dragged the other useless foot behind her.
Scrape.
Thud.
Scrape.
Thud.
SCRAPE!
THUD!
The sound stopped just outside the door. There was only silence. Stevie's lungs burned for lack of oxygen, but he couldn't breathe. Angie's muffled whimpering ceased. Nothing moved.
Then the door flew open! Angie screamed!