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Authors: Heather Graham
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her own room. âIf this house is haunted, itâs haunted by Granda and Gran. Good people who loved me.â
She had never felt afraid in this house, and she was angry that the nightâs events had left her feeling so unnerved.
So she was a redhead. There were lots of redheads out there, natural and otherwise. It was a popular color.
She locked her doors. She didnât go off with strangers. She was careful.
She looked around her room, the same room sheâd always stayed in as a child. It had changed a great deal over the years. She had a new bed, for one thingâa Christmas present from a few years ago. It was a queen, with a handsome cherry-wood sleigh-style frame. Her dresser and wardrobe matched, as did the artfully concealed entertainment center.
She headed straight to it, turning on the television and finding a channel with nothing but sitcom repeats.
âSo there. I will have no news tonight,â she said.
Her voice rang strangely loud in the empty house. She was glad when the sound of the television filled the space.
She was even more pleased when a commercial with a jingle she had written popped up on the screen. âEver soft, ever silky, ever gentle to the touch, oh, dear Bielâs Tissue, we thank you very much.â
Not poetry or even her most brilliant lyric, but it was a good, catchy tune.
She smiled, walked into the bathroom and slipped into the cotton sleep shirt that hung on the back of the door, then washed her face and brushed her teeth. A few minutes later she drew back her covers and settled beneath the clean, cool comfort of her sheets.
And she stared at the television, not seeing a thing.
She rose again and turned on the lights she had turned off earlier. She was certain that from the street, her house was lit up like a Christmas tree. She turned the television down, plumped her pillow and closed her eyes, hoping that the soft drone of the sitcom would help her sleep. It wasnât as if she had anything imperative going on early in the morning; she was just going to finish setting up the house and emptying boxes.
But she was tired. She wanted to sleep.
She tossed around for a while, forcing herself to lie still with her eyes closed, half listening to the television.
Then, head on the pillow, eyes closed, she felt a strange prickling sensation. She couldnât pinpoint anything different about the air around her or the sounds she was hearing. It was an old house, and it creaked. But she knew every creak, and she wasnât hearing anything she shouldnât have been.
But the sensation stayed with her.
She felt as if she were a child again, frightened as she watched a spooky movie, closing her eyesâ¦
If this had been a movie, though, she would have felt compelled to open her eyes, but this was real life, and she fought the desire. If she kept her eyes closed, she would be all right. It would be like hiding beneath the bed or taking refuge in a closet.
I wonât. I wonât open my eyes, she thought. And it will go away.
But the feeling didnât go away, and finally she had to open her eyes and look into the shadows, just to prove that there was nothing there.
She opened one eye slowly.
If felt as if her blood congealed and her heart froze.
She closed her eye again. She must have imagined what she thought sheâd seen. A shadow. A shadow in the shape of a man. Standing at the end of the bed.
Her frozen heart began to thunder.
A normal response, she told herself, given that there was a killer on the loose.
This was all nonsense, she thought. No one could possibly be there.
She opened both eyes, bolting up to a sitting position at the same time.
Someone was there.
A tall, solid, yet somehow shadowy figure standing at the foot of her bed.
Christina screamed and leapt out of bed, then practically flew out of the room.
She raced to the door, out to the hall and down the stairs. She burst out the front door, onto the porch and leapt
She had never felt afraid in this house, and she was angry that the nightâs events had left her feeling so unnerved.
So she was a redhead. There were lots of redheads out there, natural and otherwise. It was a popular color.
She locked her doors. She didnât go off with strangers. She was careful.
She looked around her room, the same room sheâd always stayed in as a child. It had changed a great deal over the years. She had a new bed, for one thingâa Christmas present from a few years ago. It was a queen, with a handsome cherry-wood sleigh-style frame. Her dresser and wardrobe matched, as did the artfully concealed entertainment center.
She headed straight to it, turning on the television and finding a channel with nothing but sitcom repeats.
âSo there. I will have no news tonight,â she said.
Her voice rang strangely loud in the empty house. She was glad when the sound of the television filled the space.
She was even more pleased when a commercial with a jingle she had written popped up on the screen. âEver soft, ever silky, ever gentle to the touch, oh, dear Bielâs Tissue, we thank you very much.â
Not poetry or even her most brilliant lyric, but it was a good, catchy tune.
She smiled, walked into the bathroom and slipped into the cotton sleep shirt that hung on the back of the door, then washed her face and brushed her teeth. A few minutes later she drew back her covers and settled beneath the clean, cool comfort of her sheets.
And she stared at the television, not seeing a thing.
She rose again and turned on the lights she had turned off earlier. She was certain that from the street, her house was lit up like a Christmas tree. She turned the television down, plumped her pillow and closed her eyes, hoping that the soft drone of the sitcom would help her sleep. It wasnât as if she had anything imperative going on early in the morning; she was just going to finish setting up the house and emptying boxes.
But she was tired. She wanted to sleep.
She tossed around for a while, forcing herself to lie still with her eyes closed, half listening to the television.
Then, head on the pillow, eyes closed, she felt a strange prickling sensation. She couldnât pinpoint anything different about the air around her or the sounds she was hearing. It was an old house, and it creaked. But she knew every creak, and she wasnât hearing anything she shouldnât have been.
But the sensation stayed with her.
She felt as if she were a child again, frightened as she watched a spooky movie, closing her eyesâ¦
If this had been a movie, though, she would have felt compelled to open her eyes, but this was real life, and she fought the desire. If she kept her eyes closed, she would be all right. It would be like hiding beneath the bed or taking refuge in a closet.
I wonât. I wonât open my eyes, she thought. And it will go away.
But the feeling didnât go away, and finally she had to open her eyes and look into the shadows, just to prove that there was nothing there.
She opened one eye slowly.
If felt as if her blood congealed and her heart froze.
She closed her eye again. She must have imagined what she thought sheâd seen. A shadow. A shadow in the shape of a man. Standing at the end of the bed.
Her frozen heart began to thunder.
A normal response, she told herself, given that there was a killer on the loose.
This was all nonsense, she thought. No one could possibly be there.
She opened both eyes, bolting up to a sitting position at the same time.
Someone was there.
A tall, solid, yet somehow shadowy figure standing at the foot of her bed.
Christina screamed and leapt out of bed, then practically flew out of the room.
She raced to the door, out to the hall and down the stairs. She burst out the front door, onto the porch and leapt
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