Chapter 6: Ghosts at the Door

Just as he finished, a man’s voice called from outside: "Ed, come out quick! There are vengeful spirits in your shop—ghosts who died horrible deaths. They’re here to find a substitute!"

The voice was raw, desperate, echoing through rain and thunder. It sounded like it came from the edge of the world, not just the parking lot.

As soon as the voice faded, the lights began to flicker weirdly.

The bulbs buzzed and popped, shadows jumping like startled cats across the walls. For a moment, I thought I saw faces in the darkness, watching us from every corner.

The flickering light cast eerie shadows over Susan’s family, making them look especially ghostly. Doug’s face seemed to hollow out, eyes sunken and black. Lily’s red raincoat glowed like a beacon, her pale face barely visible. Susan sat motionless, her features stretched and strange in the shifting light.

A cold fear gripped me. I was terrified the lights would go out. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting silently, praying the power would hold. Every scary story I’d ever heard crowded my mind, each more terrifying than the last.

I instinctively stepped back, clutching Grandma’s arm tightly.

She pulled me close, her heartbeat wild under my hand. Her breath quickened, her whole body tensed to run.

Grandma seemed to sense something was wrong. She shielded me behind her, her face set and serious. She squared her shoulders, staring down Susan and Doug. She’d always been brave when it counted, but tonight, fear shone in her eyes.

Grandpa’s forehead was slick with sweat, eyes locked on Susan’s family. He wiped his brow, watching every movement from the strangers. The clock ticked louder, each second an eternity.

Susan and Doug sat by the wall, unmoving, their faces dark, eyes fixed on us. They didn’t speak or blink. The silence pressed in, only the ticking clock and the storm above. Lily curled up between them, hands folded, eyes empty.

Grandma was shaking. She whispered, "Ed, I think there’s something wrong with Susan and her husband. Could they be..."

Her voice broke, the word hanging in the air. She clung to Grandpa, face pale as paper.

Before she could finish, Grandpa shot her a look and whispered, "Carol, don’t say that. Stay calm."

He squeezed her hand, his own trembling, trying to be the rock, but cracks showed in his voice.

Grandma’s face turned pale. She whispered angrily, "This is your fault for insisting they stay."

She glared at Grandpa, voice sharp. Underneath, fear trembled.

Just then, Susan asked coldly, "Uncle, Aunt, what’s wrong with you two?"

Her voice was icy, almost like a ghost’s wail—harsh and chilling, echoing off the walls. I shivered, pressing closer to Grandma, hoping she could protect me.

Grandpa forced himself to answer, "Nothing."

He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. He shuffled his feet, searching for anything to do with his hands.

Doug said, "If there’s nothing else, we’ll head upstairs to sleep."

He scooped up Lily, standing stiffly. His eyes never left Grandpa, as if daring him to protest.

He picked up Lily. The girl clung to his neck, silent as ever. Her raincoat glistened in the dim light, and she made no sound as they moved toward the stairs.

Grandpa said, "Go ahead. Be careful—the stairs are narrow."

His voice was strained, almost pleading. He watched them go, hands shaking at his sides.

Susan looked at him and said, "I lived in this house for nineteen years. I know the stairs are narrow."

Her words were clipped, edged with resentment. She paused at the foot of the stairs, looking back with something unreadable in her eyes.

Grandpa forced a smile. "Susan, you know the town rules. This house was given to us by the community—we didn’t steal it."

He tried to explain, but the words sounded hollow. The storm outside grew louder, as if demanding to be let in.

Susan said nothing and turned to go upstairs. Doug followed, carrying Lily. Their footsteps echoed on the stairs, each one heavier than the last. The light flickered as they vanished into the darkness.

Downstairs, only the three of us remained. Grandma, Grandpa, and I huddled together in the kitchen, fear so thick you could taste it. Every shadow stretched and twisted, threatening to swallow us.

Grandma said fearfully, "Ed, it’s already 11:40. Let’s run."

She clutched Grandpa’s arm, voice trembling, eyes on the door, as if calculating how fast we could reach the car.

She was about to unlock the front door, but Grandpa stopped her and whispered, "Don’t do anything rash. I noticed only we can hear the voice outside. Susan and her family didn’t react at all."

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her back. His eyes darted around, searching the shifting shadows.

Grandma froze, then whispered, "That’s right. With the voice so loud, they should have heard it."

Her brow furrowed, confusion and fear battling. She glanced up the stairs, as if she could see through the walls.

Grandpa’s eyes darted. "I’m afraid the one outside is the vengeful spirit, trying to trick us into opening the door."

His words were almost too quiet to hear. They hung heavy in the stormy air.

Grandma whispered, "But Susan’s family seems off—not like living people. And when the lightning struck, I saw none of them had a shadow."

Her voice was ragged, hands shaking. She clung to Grandpa, desperate for sense in this nightmare.

Grandpa replied, voice shaking, "I saw that too. But maybe it’s a trick by the vengeful spirit to get us to open the door."

He wiped sweat from his brow. The storm howled, the lights flickered, the world closing in.

"Can a spirit really do that?" Grandma whispered.

Her voice was barely there, trembling with fear. I pressed closer to her, wishing I could disappear.

Just then, the man’s voice outside called again: "Ed, why haven’t you run yet? If you wait any longer, it’ll be too late!"

His words echoed, wild and urgent. I shivered, goosebumps all over.

His voice sounded desperate, cracking on the last word, raw and pleading. It was the voice of someone with nothing left to lose.

Grandpa called out, "Who are you?"

He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting into the storm. The wind snatched his words away, but the fear stayed.

The man answered, "Tommy Dalton."

The name sent a jolt through the room. Grandma gasped, hand to her mouth. I stared at Grandpa, waiting for him to explain.

Grandpa and Grandma exchanged a look of terror, a thousand memories flashing between them. The storm rattled the windows, my own heart pounding in my ears.

Tommy Dalton was from our town. Years back, he’d been killed by a car at the edge of town—his body mangled, legs crushed. Folks always said it was a tragedy—he’d had a rough life, but nobody deserved to go that way. For months, people left flowers where he died, but after a while, he faded from talk.

Tommy had no family, no kids, nobody to claim his body. He’d lived alone in a trailer past the train tracks. When he died, there was nobody to grieve him, nobody to argue over his things. Even his name faded from memory.

Grandpa had felt sorry for him, built him a coffin, and carried him up to the cemetery to bury him. I remembered Grandpa coming home that night, muddy and worn out. He never talked about what he saw, but sometimes I’d catch him staring at Tommy’s old photo, eyes misty.

Grandpa’s voice trembled, "Tommy, why have you come back?"

He spoke softly, almost to himself. The storm howled, the house shuddering with every gust.

As soon as he finished, Grandma glared and whispered, "Ed, do you want to die? Talking to the dead."

She shook him by the arm, face white as a sheet. Outside, the wind howled a name we all tried to forget. Inside, the clock ticked closer to midnight.