I was coming back from a lte-night story assignment. The light above the back entrance flickered, giving the already shady back alley setting an even eerier mood.
Having heard one too many stories about late nights in the old building, I hurried inside, determined to get things done and get out of there. I reached a finger over to flick on the light switch with no result. The room remained bathed in black, save the dim glow of streetlights through the windows.
At any moment, I was sure, I would be confronted by some gruesom spectre. An overactive imagination can be something of a plague at times. However, since standing trembling next to the light switch was not goign to get me out any sooner, I crept to my computer. Crept, of course, so as not to disturb any ghosts.
"There is very little," I thought, "that can keep a coward like me here late at night."
Having arrived there safely, I sat down and typed like a woman possessed. Then, I heard it. From above me came the distinct sound of a sob. I told myself it was all in my head and continued to type, my fingers stumbling over the keyboard in jittery motions. I struck every other letter in err. Then, it came again. I all but jumped out of my seat as I heard it. As if cued by the noise, the light flickered on behind me.
"One more surprise," I thought, "and I really will die of fright."
I turned to look and saw the light shone directly on a book of old newspapers, lying open on the desk behind me. I walked over to take a look. It was open to the Halloween edition of some year long ago. The yellowed page was cluttered with all sorts of stories, but one in the center caught my eye: "Man dies in fatal fire: Dr. Gavin Devereaux, 27, died in a fire started by a kerosene lantern early this morning. He had entered the building to look for his daughter, who was later located, having safely escaped."
Below the story, on a small piece of paper was written a haiku, "Follow the staircase, dark passageway to the past, on Halloween night."
Now this, I knew, was just a sick joke. A haiku? It had to be, really. I wadded the note up, only to hear another sob followed by the faint cry of a voice, "Help! Someone help!"
Normally, I am a very rational person, but every once in a while, my idiocy gets the better of me. Point in case: I walked to the stairway that led to the second floor.
The door was already open. I took the creeking steps up one at a time, up to the rarely used upstairs. Upon reaching the top, it looked no different than normal. That is to say, it looked like a run-down relic of long past.
Now, there are a few places in this world you don't want to venture into on a Halloween night: the catacombs in Paris, Salem, Oregon, and the pyramids in Egypt being just a few. The second floor of the newspaper is one of those places. Being a bit of a scaredy-cat, I was especially loath of ending up there, even more so when I saw the light at the other end of the hall. Against my better judgment, I approached it.
When I reached the door from whence the strange glow came, the hall suddenly burst into ghostly flames around me. My breath suddenly caught in my throat and I froze as a chill feeling crept up my spine. I heard the quick pounding of footsteps coming closer, and closer. Then they were right next to me, and the air turned cold as the ghostly figure of a man ran past, into the room. "Natalie!" he called desperately.
With his black hair and tall form, he looked like a tortured Heathcliff wandering the moors. No matter how much he resembled some romantic figure from a Gothic novel, however, he was stil la ghost and I decided it was high time to get out of there before he saw me. Then, he looked right at me with angry eyes, burning brighter than the fires which were quickly consuming the building. "Where is my daughter? Help me find my daughter!"
Somehow, the memory of the article survived my terror. "She's safe," I said, in a voice so calm it surprise me, "She's already outside and she's safe."
"Safe." He finally let his focus wander to the rest of the room and he gasped. Taking in the fire with a panicked look, he gave me one last glance and ran back out. The surreal flames died in his tracks.
Numb with shock, I stumbled down the stairs as well. When I reached the old book of newspapers, I stopped and glance at it. In place of the old article was a new one: "Family escapes fire: A family narrowly escaped a fire started by a kerosene lantern early this morning. Dr. Gavin Devereaux ran inside to find his daughter, but returned safely. The doctor, who officers believe was suffering from shock and smoke inhalation, claims that he left when a ghost told him his daughter was already outside."
Enough was enough. I shook my head and shut the book. "Suffering from smoke inhalation? Great. So what's my excuse?"