Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-4893169-20170819212316

Panic

Natalie closed her eyes and tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. She could feel it drawing the closet walls of her hiding place in close. It brought the small, dark ceiling pressing down within inches of tousled blond hair. Like the lid of a coffin, she thought helplessly. At least her parents and little brother had ceased those pitiful wailing and mewling noises. Oh, Gods. Tears began anew as she huddled further in the tight corner underneath the shelves. She knew she couldn’t help them now…not with that thing downstairs.

The noises had stopped once again, and now she could hear the steady creak of steps ascending the stairs. Natalie wanted to run, to scramble out of the bedroom window. Her mind was screaming; get out while you still can! But she stayed where she was with her knees tucked up against her chest. Her muscles had frozen into knots of ice.

Mike’s fault, Natalie thought as she clenched her teeth, her breath hissing in and out in short bursts. ''This was all Mike’s fault! If he hadn’t been so bored to scour the Internet until he found that stupid cottage on the edge of town!''

Something rustled down the hall; something with slow, dragging feet. And Lola’s fault too! She thought, fear quickly giving way to fury. For encouraging him—for saying it was a way better idea to explore a murder house rather than hook up a DVD player to some stereo speakers and watch all “The Fast and Furious” movies!

Something took a half dozen quiet, but sure steps up to the bedroom door. ''I didn’t take your stupid gun! She fumed as her whole body shook in a convulsion that bumped her against the wall. I didn’t even touch the damn thing! I just looked at it. Why are you even here instead of at Jeremy’s house? He’s the one that found…''She froze as she pressed a fist into her mouth.

Natalie’s bewildered brain labored as with the attempt to reconstruct the events preceding this whole mess. Mike and Jeremy forcing open a window with a stolen pry bar, then Mike boosted Jeremy in first and then when Jeremy couldn’t get the front door open, Mike had him haul Natalie in, followed shortly by Monica and Annie, and lastly, Lola, because she was heavy and fat and no one really liked her because she was a mooch as well as a whiny and needy anime freak. She ended up landing heavily on the other side with her whole pimply ass sticking up in the air, and a cut on her hand from some broken glass. Even complained loudly about it until Mike finally yelled in frustration and disgust, “Fine! Then just go, you total weeb pervert. No one’s holdin’ a gun at your head, forcing you to stay!” Lola promptly shut up and ended up staying, probably because she couldn’t make it back out the window without some help…and no one was in the mood to offer it to her.

Meanwhile, Annie was muttering in a hushed whisper “Man, this place is so screwed up...it’s Tweaker Trash Central! ”

“Yeah,” Monica agreed, pinching her pert nose. “This place sucks. We should leave, seriously.”

Natalie would have complained too, but she was busy retching in the corner, overwhelmed by the smell as well as what she glimpsed underneath Lola’s flouncy chiffon skirt.

They eventually ended up staying for an hour though, finally ending up in that crappy lounge, and piles of rotting rubbish and plastic shopping bags full of Monster and Redbull drink cans everywhere, wallpaper and curtains hanging in tattered strips, the walls and ceiling were streaked black as though there had been a fire but it was actually mold. Lumps of plaster were falling off the walls, narrowly missing their heads by inches. Everyone soon crowded around this gap in the floorboards, looking down at Lola, who just sat there, and then at the blue-black revolver she kept turning over and over in her hand; staring at the rust-like spots staining the metal from her injured hand. That chubby, dark-haired girl in a bikini mini thong stared back at them with a speculative expression in her watery blue eyes, and then licked her lips slowly as she tasted the stone grit and blood off her fingers.

“Oh, Gods, no, no,” Natalie moaned against her knuckles. “No! No! I got to tell them! Tell them that the cursed gun legend is true! About that farm girl who had shot both her parents and her seven siblings dead in their beds then butchered them all up like hogs!”

Something rattled the brass knob then the bedroom door opened slowly. Footsteps slowly shuffled across the shag carpet.

For a moment everything was quiet, except for Natalie’s heavy breathing as she fumbled through her pocket, being careful to move slowly. “What? Where is it? Did I drop it?” She shakily felt the floor of her small confined space. “No! The phone must be in the car… Well that's great, that's just fuckin' great, Tallie. Now what the fuck are we supposed to do? We're in some real pretty shit now Blondie.”

Natalie’s strained whispered cursing was interrupted by a heavy banging and thudding as a desk was shifted aside, then a loud clatter and scraping as if something long and wooden (a broomstick or baseball bat) was thrust under the bed.

She scooted herself further into the cramped corner. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! She bit hard on her tongue to keep from screaming, filling her mouth with a sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood. She heard more rapid movement, the sound of a bureau sliding open; clothes and shoes being yanked out to thunk and rustle on the floor. Then as the footsteps slowly shuffled around to face the closet door, her fumbling fingers encountered something—a narrow vertical crack, something…like the edge of a door. Something…like a crawl space? Wondered Natalie incredulously.

Her heart hammered painfully as she hurriedly searched the sealed panel with shaking fingers. Then she felt a cold current of air, it brought with it a faint fragrance of roses and orange blossoms, accompanied by a scent of autumn fire pits and pine bon fires. The floral breeze brushed her dust-coated hair, and gently stroked her damp forehead. A picture began to form in her mind, the narrow tunnel-like space just big enough for a lanky teenage, such as herself, to crawl through, the attic vent—little more than a wooden picture frame with a wire-like grate loosely attached to the wall, the sliding windows that her mom had her open to air out the attic…then forgot to latch close. Words began circling around in her head over and over and over, causing her to break out in further cold sweat. Work fast and don’t make a sound, don’t let it hear you…

But she must have made a sound, for she heard an all-too-familiar voice call out her name, although it was now dry and cracked as if from great disuse or thirst. Frowning determinedly and resisting the urge to peek at the locked door, Natalie inserted her fingers into the narrow crack and yanked with all her might. The panel squeaked loudly as it slid slowly open revealing a dark space encrusted with thick grime, dusty cobwebs and desiccated rodent droppings. She managed to get it halfway when the closet door suddenly buckled inward as a hatchet splintered through the heavy oak.

Her eyes locked onto the narrow rectangle of darkness.

Screw Mike!

'Crunch. Thunk. Crunch'

Screw Monica!

CRUNCH--CREEEEAAAK!

Screw Annie!

'Crunch-CRACK! Crunch-CRACK!'

Screw Jeremy!

creeeeaaak.…crrickkkk… crickkkkkkkk!

''Screw them all! They’re on their own!''

Scrambling forward, Natalie squirmed inside just as the door slammed back against its hinges with a sudden loud crack. She didn’t even pause to look back. 