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Authors: Paige Williams
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It was when the sun finally sank behind the trees, turning the sky bronze, that I felt the first wave of panic. I loved horror stories but they were all coming back to me in vivid, gruesome, detail. I was a young woman, alone, at twilight, walking down a lonely twist ing road in the middle of nowhere and -- the pièce de résistance of horror movie don'ts -- no one knew where I was.
Not good.
Perhaps worse, I was a cute blond sporting over 25 ,000 dollars worth of designer duds so it wasn't just possessed serial killers I had to worry about. The air turned chilly and, shivering, I pulled my thin Ferre jacket close around me-- at the moment I would have gladly traded it for an oversized parka from Walmart .
I saw it then : A castle. I scrunched my eyes closed and shook my head, thinking that maybe, after the smog of the city, the fresh country air was making me hallucinate.
I slowly opened my eyes. Nope. It was a castle.
Weren't castles supposed to be nestled beside Scottish Locks, not scattered around the American Midwest? As I gazed at it, my eyes squinting against the setting sun, something about it reminded me of a movie-set reproduction of a haunted castle; perhaps it was the way the lichen artistically trailed off the trunks of willows standing sentry before its gates or the way masses of cobwebs gracefully stretched within their boughs .
I half expected to hear the theme of Ghostbusters.
One thing was sure: it wasn't the sort of place I was eager to visit in the daytime, let alone after dark, but by now I was cold , hungry and desperate to talk to another human being, and there was a light on in one of the windows.
* * * *
It was full dark by the time I approached the castles' entranceway, my footsteps echoing off the cobblestone path. I shivered , partly because of the cold, partly because I knew this was one of the stupidest things I'd ever done. That said, staying on the road didn't seem any brighter.
Huge doors, old and thick and imposing, loomed above me. Slowly, giving myself time to summon what little courage I could, I gr abbed the antique knocker and swung it. Sound boomed around me, announcing my presence to the gathering darkness. A hush settled over the night; the animals stilled, even the wind in the grasses fell quiet.
The silence screamed a warning.
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists so hard my fingernails left bloody half-moons on my palms, and willed myself to be brave. After all, this was middle America, how bad could it be?
A few moments later I realized I was holding my breath and hesitantly let it out. Muffled sounds, as though of someone--some thing --descending stairs, came from behind the door. My pulse jumped and became a jackhammer in my throat. I was both wildly hopeful and wildly afraid and for basically the same reason: in all this bleakness, this desolation, I was not alone .
Chapter 2
When the footsteps reached the door I heard metal rasp on metal, as though a bolt were being fo rced back. Goose bumps prickled my arms as I thoroughly regretted the adventurous streak that had made me think a shortcut to my parents' home would be a good idea.
I held my Fendi bag before me like a holy shield as the door opened, apparently of its own accord.
"Hello?" I said--or tried to . My throat was dry and a rasping sound escaped . I cleared my throat and leant forward to peer into the lobby. Wooden t orches burnt in sconces by the door casting trembling shadows along cobblestone lined walls. The room was made of chiseled stone slabs and completely empty. No tables, no paintings, no chairs. Most importantly, no telephone. On the right a steep spiral staircase ascended into darkness.
This was so like a ride at Disney W orld, the only thing missing was the slow rising wail of maniacal laughter.
"Hello!" I overcompensated and my voice echoed off the walls.
My back was hurting from bending over, peeking into the lobby. I started to take a
It was when the sun finally sank behind the trees, turning the sky bronze, that I felt the first wave of panic. I loved horror stories but they were all coming back to me in vivid, gruesome, detail. I was a young woman, alone, at twilight, walking down a lonely twist ing road in the middle of nowhere and -- the pièce de résistance of horror movie don'ts -- no one knew where I was.
Not good.
Perhaps worse, I was a cute blond sporting over 25 ,000 dollars worth of designer duds so it wasn't just possessed serial killers I had to worry about. The air turned chilly and, shivering, I pulled my thin Ferre jacket close around me-- at the moment I would have gladly traded it for an oversized parka from Walmart .
I saw it then : A castle. I scrunched my eyes closed and shook my head, thinking that maybe, after the smog of the city, the fresh country air was making me hallucinate.
I slowly opened my eyes. Nope. It was a castle.
Weren't castles supposed to be nestled beside Scottish Locks, not scattered around the American Midwest? As I gazed at it, my eyes squinting against the setting sun, something about it reminded me of a movie-set reproduction of a haunted castle; perhaps it was the way the lichen artistically trailed off the trunks of willows standing sentry before its gates or the way masses of cobwebs gracefully stretched within their boughs .
I half expected to hear the theme of Ghostbusters.
One thing was sure: it wasn't the sort of place I was eager to visit in the daytime, let alone after dark, but by now I was cold , hungry and desperate to talk to another human being, and there was a light on in one of the windows.
* * * *
It was full dark by the time I approached the castles' entranceway, my footsteps echoing off the cobblestone path. I shivered , partly because of the cold, partly because I knew this was one of the stupidest things I'd ever done. That said, staying on the road didn't seem any brighter.
Huge doors, old and thick and imposing, loomed above me. Slowly, giving myself time to summon what little courage I could, I gr abbed the antique knocker and swung it. Sound boomed around me, announcing my presence to the gathering darkness. A hush settled over the night; the animals stilled, even the wind in the grasses fell quiet.
The silence screamed a warning.
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists so hard my fingernails left bloody half-moons on my palms, and willed myself to be brave. After all, this was middle America, how bad could it be?
A few moments later I realized I was holding my breath and hesitantly let it out. Muffled sounds, as though of someone--some thing --descending stairs, came from behind the door. My pulse jumped and became a jackhammer in my throat. I was both wildly hopeful and wildly afraid and for basically the same reason: in all this bleakness, this desolation, I was not alone .
Chapter 2
When the footsteps reached the door I heard metal rasp on metal, as though a bolt were being fo rced back. Goose bumps prickled my arms as I thoroughly regretted the adventurous streak that had made me think a shortcut to my parents' home would be a good idea.
I held my Fendi bag before me like a holy shield as the door opened, apparently of its own accord.
"Hello?" I said--or tried to . My throat was dry and a rasping sound escaped . I cleared my throat and leant forward to peer into the lobby. Wooden t orches burnt in sconces by the door casting trembling shadows along cobblestone lined walls. The room was made of chiseled stone slabs and completely empty. No tables, no paintings, no chairs. Most importantly, no telephone. On the right a steep spiral staircase ascended into darkness.
This was so like a ride at Disney W orld, the only thing missing was the slow rising wail of maniacal laughter.
"Hello!" I overcompensated and my voice echoed off the walls.
My back was hurting from bending over, peeking into the lobby. I started to take a
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