As promised, here's a short "ghost" story I wrote some time ago. Not much to it. This was one of those rare tales that insisted on being written down. I didn't write it so much as record it. I haven't edited it much since writing it, either. If you like it, feel free to say so (if you don't like it, well, feel free to not say so. The lack of comments will warn me not to try fiction here again).
A snippet, an image.
It is a closet. A freestanding wardrobe that has been shoved into an alcove. The doors, of a dark wood, have one carving each. On the right is a carving of an elderly lady, elegantly dressed with a tired frown on her face. She doesn't look particularly mean, but she does look distant, unapproachable. On the left is an elderly gentleman. He is also dressed in an elegant outfit, but his seems more shabby, used. The coat almost manages to look frayed.
They both look outward, eyes haunted and cold with exhaustion or fear.
It was just a game they played. Running around the house, each one finding a new place to hide. The other inevitably finding the first, and the game starting over.
The boy hasn't been in this room, with the closet, before. But the large closet looks like an inviting place to hide, if it is empty. The doors swing freely open when he grasps the brass handles and lightly pulls. There is no lock, apparently.
And the closet is completely bare, not even a needle remaining from whatever had occupied it before.
His brother is on the stairs, so the boy dashes in and pulls the doors shut behind him. The laughter of his brother echoes down the hall, and his own breath seems too loud and harsh in the darkness. He can hear his brother searching, but the sounds seem to become more distant and faded as he listens. And he feels a growing unease.
The doors had shut out all light when they closed. The air seems thicker and warmer than it should. And distantly, he can hear voices that shouldn't be in the silent house. The voice of an old woman, asking a question, and the answer from a deep voice that has bravado more than confidence.
The boy, who had been crouching, stands. His head could brush the ceiling of the closet if he stands on tiptoe, but instead he pushes hard against the doors.
What seemed so fragile before now seems as solid as a granite wall. He pushes again, and again. He throws his whole weight against the doors. The voices grow louder, and the woman sounds almost angry.
In desperation and fear, he pounds with both fists against the doors, screaming for his brother, yelling at the top of his lungs. The woman is almost here, he can almost feel her behind him. He pounds and tears run down his cheeks as the phantoms approach.
He quiets, and readies to turn and face the nightmare, when the doors are thrown open and he sees his big brother's grinning face.
He is out of the closet in a moment, and holding his brother tight. The tears return and shock replaces joy in the older boy's eyes. The older boy examines the closet. Empty and still. Nothing inside at all. As the scared brother describes what happened, the older boy studies the edges of the doors to see if he can figure out what caused the doors to stick.
Nothing.
Holding his younger brother tight, the searcher closes the closet. The lady looks at the two boys from her carving with an intensity that neither had noticed before. The two retreat from the room, to get away from the glowering figure. Silence falls.
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