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Stats: 2,274,223 members, 4,983,470 topics. Date: Sunday, 16 June 2019 at 11:57 AM
|One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 6:28pm On Jan 04|
This is a new series by The Writing Hub. Please do well to follow. Your comments will mean a lot.
Bob Sheider was a ‘sleepaholic’. Seven-thirty in the morning, and he was still on the bed stretching like a rubber band. When he finally opened his red-as-blood eyes, he stared at the green wall-clock in his room, and could not believe his eyes.
He jumped off his bed like an Olympic sprinter and knocked off the bottle of beer he had slept with last night after spending several hours in the local club. Bob would turn 40 by September, but he lived like a exuberant 20-year-old kid.
He had many problems but the chief among them was alcoholism. He had won several drinking-competitions, and proudly held the record of drinking over twenty bottles of alcohol in a sitting. That was one of the very few things he was proud of.
He also had many medals for smoking. Bob Sheider was never without a cigarette. He drank alcohol like water, and smoked cigarettes as of they were food to him.
He ran straight to the bathroom, and had a quick shower. He ran over to his room, and hurried his clothes on forgetting to use the cream. He always forget, even when he was not in a hurry. As usual, he wore an oversized pair of trousers, and a rumpled sleeve-shirt that had lost two of its buttons. But that was no problem of his.
He went to the kitchen, and it dawned on him that his beverages had gone on extinction. He left the kitchen in frustration and slipped his ‘laughing shoes’ on his feet.
After locking the door behind him, he lazily opened his mouth and yawned. He needed nobody to tell him that his breath stunk. He opened the door to go inside for a tooth wash, and he stumbled on the flower vase by the door and fell to his face. He grinned and cursed the lifeless flower. Bob surely was missing his wife.
With the way Bob looked and behaved, no one would ever think he once had a very lovely wife and a beautiful daughter. They were treasures to him, but his habits never treated them nicely. He came home late every night drunk with a burning cigarette in his hands. His wife dared not question him. Whenever she summoned courage to do so, she got a black eye for it for free. The beating and battering persisted that his wife could not take it anymore. She packed her bags and left with the daughter who hardly experienced the love of a father.
Bob never pleaded with his wife as she packed her belongings. Bob was so proud! Ever since, he had not gone to look for them. He had lived the last 5 years of his life in misery hoping that she would just show up. His hope had not paid off, and he had even given up the sagging hope. But he seriously wanted his family back.
After a quick tooth brush, Bob strolled along the streets of Benin on his way to work. If there was one thing Bob loved apart from his drinks, it was his job. Not his job really, but the endless streams of arguments that were the norm in his workplace. By the time Bob arrived work, he was sweating like a goat getting ready to be translated into meat for Christmas.
Bob believed in living a life where he made his own decisions, and did not care much if his decisions hurt the next person or himself. He moved far away from his parents and siblings when he was just twenty years old because his family kicked against him smoking and drinking.
It was the same habits that chased his wife and child out of his life. He had no friends save for his colleagues at work because Bob had practically no interest he could share with others, but arguments. For that he was renowned. To Bob, the next person was of no importance.
As he walked into the building that housed his work place, his default mode of sadness was on play. Whatever made him sad was definitely not so far from the frustration he had acquired from life over the years. He could not complete his university education because he left his family in a bid of being the boss of his own life.
He was lucky enough to be taken in by Mister Kennedy, the pot-bellied, archaic businessman, as an apprentice at Fountain Press, where he had remained ever since.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by uchedora(f): 9:11pm On Jan 04|
interesting,following jareh ,keep it coming
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 8:47am On Jan 05|
‘Fountain Press’, read the old signpost that stood tirelessly at the front of 1, Wire Street. The signpost had been there for about 30 years, and Bob had spent 20 years of it.
It was a publishing house ran by Mr Kennedy whose endless stories of massive failure he had encountered in various businesses would discourage even the son of the world’s most successful businessman from going into business. Mr Kennedy was in his 60s with a very large family of a wife, seven children, two grandparents, four nephews, one cousin and three unnamable relations. He sure had many mouths to feed.
There was hardly any business he had not tried his scaly hands on. From ice-cream manufacturing where his refrigerator was always filled with leaking ice-cream not supplied, he moved to soap making that put him in straight debt. He went into drugs sale that gave him a free ticket to jail. From there he went to become a proprietor of a school that ran dry like a desert just a year after it was opened. He finally settled with book printing and publishing that brought him so much wealth while the good business lasted.
But in recent years, his business had been dealt severe blows by the industry. He could barely publish two books in a year. However, he had not closed up, and had remained strong, although dying. Mr Kennedy was a die-hard addict of time. That explained why Bob Sheider was always on a race to work every morning. After twenty years in the establishment, he still had no courage to come to work late.
Fountain Press was a two-room firm: one for Mr Kennedy and the other for the employees and some old books that may never be read for the rest of their existence. It is quite unbelievable that Mr Ken was able to keep three employees at a time as such when business was not in his favour.
Of the three employees, Charles Friday was the oldest, both in age and in his stay at the firm. He was there with Mr Ken when the foundation of the business was laid and it seemed by every indication that he would spend the rest of his life there. Unlike Bob, he was an enemy of alcohol. He sat always on an old rickety chair with outdated newspapers always on his table. He took one or two peep at the photos in the newspapers whenever boredom set in.
Dennis Suma was the youngest employee, and ran the errands of the firm. He also was the one in charge of the printer, photocopy machine and white-turned-brown desktop computer from which Fountain Press drew her daily breath of survival. A graduate of a polytechnic, the job was the best thing that ever happened to him. He was the boss of arguments at Fountain Press.
Bob was the secretary, and had on his table so many sheets of papers that the last time he bothered to arrange them properly was when he got married. So set was the office of Fountain Press.
Bob rushed into office, and took his seat without saying a word of greeting to his colleagues. He arrived work at 8:05 AM, and he knew that meant he was going to receive a unsolicited sermon from Mr Kennedy for good fifty minutes. He sat straight up with his colleagues looking at him with a funny wrinkle margining their lips. He was ready for the worst as he expected the door to his boss’ office to squeak signaling the coming out of his boss. After waiting for about ten long minutes, he was forced to ask a question.
“Boss is not around?” He quizzed.
“He is not coming today. His wife had an accident last night.” Dennis replied quickly, as if he had been expecting the question the while long.
“I am a lucky boy!” Bob proclaimed, visibly resisting the smile trying to break forth form his hardened face.
“You should thank God, not your lucks.” Charles advised arranging the old newspapers on his desk.
“God? Why should I thank someone who doesn’t exist” He asked with no iota of joke.
The story just got started. Please follow.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 8:49am On Jan 05|
Thanks so much.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 12:15pm On Jan 09|
Chapter One (2)
Charles was not ready to go into an argument with him because he had planned spending this supposed free day sleeping, but he just could not hold himself back.
“God does exist. He does, and nothing can change that.” Charles preached like a preacher.
“That is what that book called the bible tells you. But only fools believe what that self-contradicting book says. From the things going on in our world, it is obvious there is no God.” Bob stated emphatically.
“If there is no God, who then created the earth, animals and man?” Dennis calmly chipped in.
“There comes the cheap argument. Things envolved, and no God made them. Where did the God come from? I wonder why we believe barbaric things.” Bob poured out into the air.
“I cannot tell you where God came from because as the Bible says, His ways are unsearchable. But I know for sure that God does exist and he controls the affairs of mankind.” Charles humbly submitted.
“Spare me that nonsense,” Bob flared up. “The bible is crap. I don’t believe anything in it, because they are all abstract. If God was to be in control of the affairs of mankind as you claim, why didn’t he stop the accident that has bedridden boss' wife? Tell me!”
“Everything happens for a reason and we cannot explain everything. But we know that God exists. Even Charles Darwin was forced to admit that there was a greater force at work.” Dennis replied.
“Charles had a weakness which I do not have. To me, there is no God. If there were to be God, I wouldn’t have lost my wife and little child; I wouldn’t have dropped out of college. This God issue is a lazy man’s delight, and I’d rather focus on enjoying my life than committing myself to a non-existent persona.” Bob argued with drops of sweat having a slow swim on his ridged forehead.
“So you are not afraid of Hell fire and do not have any plans of making heaven?” asked Dennis, utterly surprised.
“Heaven? Where is that? Nonsense! There is no place like that. Our heaven is here on earth. Mine is with my bottles of beer at night. Boss’ own is this place. Some folks’ heaven is their wealth, some others’ is their women. My father’s was his rules. The pastors’ own is the content of the offering basket. So it goes.”
“May God forgive you because with the words of your mouth, you may end up having a three-bedroom apartment in Hell.” Charles prayed, obviously getting irritated by the words of Bob.
“Hell? That place too doesn’t exist. If there truly is a god, and he is loving as you all claim, why would he make a place such as hell to destroy the very people he supposedly claims he loves? If hell do exist, then it is here on earth. We go through it everyday.” Bob said raising the inquisitive flare of Dennis who kept punching the keyboard of the computer that was not on.
“What do you mean? How can we be going through hell everyday?” Dennis inquired.
“Look at yourself Charles, for thirty years you have been here because you have been unable to get a better job. That is your hell. Dennis, your mates are working in big firms earning a good salary, but your home pay here is not even enough to take you home. That is your hell. Look at me, no family. That is my hell. Rubbish! No God. No heaven. No hell outside this earth. Period!” Bob nailed his argument as a cool breeze blew across the office.
“We all have our opinion on this, but your opinion cannot change the fact that there is God. He controls our affairs on this earth, and he is supreme. I was once in a shoe larger than yours until I encountered him.” Charles submitted ready to end the argument.
“What happened?” Dennis asked enthusiastically.
“I once believe there was no God, or life after death until one night. I had just returned from my girlfriend’s place when I met my room full of caskets. As I beheld them, red-coloured skeletons started coming out from the coffins. I tried to run away, but the door was locked. I was almost melting as ice. The skeletons surrounded me, and started eating my flesh. At that point, I called on Jesus who I had detested for years. Immediately, the skeletons and coffins all dissapeared. I woke up, and found out it was a dream. I had fallen asleep on my girlfriend’s thighs. I ran immediately to a church and gave my life to God.”
Bob and Dennis were both visibly scared, and a Spygammometer in their bodies would had clearly shown that they had an increase in heart rate.
“That’s scary!” Dennis confirmed.
“Nice story. You should be a novelist. If God exists, let him make me scared like that this night, and I will go to church on Sunday morning.” Bob swore.
“So be it!” chorused Charles and Dennis.
The rest of the day went quietly, with Charles sleeping most of the time.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ann2012(f): 1:57pm On Jan 09|
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Olorichubbie(f): 10:14am On Jan 31|
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 10:44pm On Jan 31|
Chapter 2 (1)
It was another terrific episode of drinking for Bob Sheider at Exquisite Bar that served the ordinary men of the city. Bob Sheider had become so accustomed with drinking at Exquisite Bar that people were bound to raise an eyebrow whenever he was absent.
However, he ensured he did not drink to stupor this night because of the bet he had with the God who he did not believe existed. He wanted to be in a perfect state of mind.
As Bob got to his little house that night, he spent a decade looking for his key inside his pockets. After a fruitless search, he discovered that the noise-making bunch of key was right in his hand. Bob was definitely not drunk. It happens to everyone.
There was a blackout in the area due to the transformer that went bad earlier in the morning. As he unlocked the door, he put on the torchlight that was on his phone so he could see his way through the apartment.
As the door flung open, he was greeted by an array of bright light that he had to cover his eyes with his beer-smelling hands. He was shocked to the bones.
Right before his very wide-open red eyes, sitting on his sofas were two human skeletons. Cold shivers ran down his spine, and his bones began to dance. He wanted to run deep into the ground, but his feet was stuck to the marble floor of his apartment.
One was with a glass of wine with her legs crossed, while the other had a ciggarete burning in his mouth. Bob was as good as dead!
“Bob, my grandson!” One of the skeletons called out. It was Bob’s paternal grandmother that died just few years after Bob was born. Bob’s heart skipped seven beats hearing his name. He had no time to wonder how she knew her name. More scary to Bob was the look of the mouth from which his name came out. The mouth was full of teeth that were as brown as the colour brown, and the jaw looked like it was to fall off any time soon.
“Bob!” She called out again. Bob tried to cover his eyes and possibly disappear, but his eyelids refused to meet: his eyes remained wide open beholding two bony skeletons on his sofa, with one of them calling his name. He tried opening his mouth to question what they were doing in his apartment, but his words were ten kilometers away from him.
“Bob, come say hello to papa!” the other skeleton called out with streams of smoking coming out of his mouth and nostrils. At this point, Bob realized they were his grandparents. He summoned up courage, and spoke faintly:
“What the hell are you both doing here? You are supposed to be dead.” Bob asked with his words embedded in fear and astonishment.
“Common, don’t be rude. We are sure dead, but we came to pay you a visit. It’s been a while.” The grandmother’s skeleton replied with a rebelling smile on her bony face.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ann2012(f): 1:30am On Feb 01|
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 7:15am On Feb 01|
That was the last thing anybody would want to hear, and Bob was not exempted. One could scarcely manage the visits of ghosts, let alone the speaking skeletons of one’s dead grandparents, at night for that matter.
Bob’s heart was leaving his chest, but yet he borrowed courage and spoke.
“Why visit me? We have no business together. No rope connects us. You better start going to where you came from” Bob breathed.
“Honey, he wants to call the cops,” the grandpa skeleton told the other with a disgusting laughter renting the air that was unavoidably tensed in Bob’s living room. He brought out another ciggarete from his skull, lit it, and resumed his smoking. “We have things in common, son. Come sit and we will talk.”
“Come, come have a sit” Bob’s grandmother’s skeleton called out to him, coughing loudly thereafter with her bones shaking visibly.
“You both just leave. Go! Go!” Bob screamed, while the visiting skeletons laughed.
“We thought maybe we could have a drinking contest. We were champs in our days, and now you are carrying on the legacy. We wanted to see who was better. Your grandma here is a drinking superstar.” Grandpa’s skeleton calmly narrated.
Grandma’s skeleton poured more drink into her cup from a black bottle on the stool before her.
“I indeed was a champion. You know what? I drank too full that I killed your grandfather here, and thereafter I killed myself. I have a reputation.” She heralded with a laughter that sounded like a thousand ringing bell.
“After these years, you are still drunk that you cannot remember things clearly. She didn’t kill me. I died of tuberculosis caused by my expertise in smoking,” Grandpa’s skeleton said as he drew a mouthfull of smoke. “She committed suicide after she thought she was responsible for my death. She was drunk though.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t come with my brain.” Said Grandma’s skeleton, and they both laughed indiscreetly.
“So you died of smoking, and you of drinking?” Bob asked fearfully pointing at them both with his fingers that blood had stopped flowing to.
“Yes!” Both skeletons chorused. “And you do both. You will surely die of both suicide and tuberculosis.” they added with a laughter that sure rang in Bob’s head.
Bob at this point was terrified beyond measure. He wanted to say more, but fear had tied his tongue with a padlock whose key had been thrown into an ocean.
Grandpa’s skeleton stood up, and walked slowly towards Bob. His bones squeaked as he moved in a way you would think he would collapse any moment. As he approached Bob, Bob wished he would just melt away like ice. He got close to Bob, and placed his hand over his shoulders. Bob lost his mind!
“My son, smoking and drinking is not bad. Do them daily so you can join us quickly. I and your grandma are getting lonely. We need you to keep us company.” Grandpa skeleton whispered quietly to Bob’s ear while grandma popped open a new bottle of an unlabeled alcoholic drink.
“Before you join us, ensure you get ready your casket. Do not come with a white one, those greedy men will steal it from you on the way. A brown one is better.” Grandma skeleton uttered from where she was seated.
“And do not forget to come along with many sticks of ciggarete and bottles of drinks in your caskets. I particularly like that one they call…..”
“Moet” Grandma shouted!
“Yes, that one. Meanwhile, let the party begin!” Grandpa skeleton exclaimed as he let his hand off the sweating Bob.
Right before Bob’s eyes, his dirty but well-polished marble floor began to crack open at different points, and from the open ground came caskets of various sizes, colours and shapes. This was more than he could bear. His head was heavier than what his neck could carry. For the very first time since he entered his apartment, he was able to move his feet. He moved closer to the door, but the door was like a wall. He began to scream and cry while the skeletons laughed out loudly.
The coffins flung open, and smoke came out from them. Then came skeletons: some with tattered clothes on, and others completely Unclad. Some were armless, and some had just one leg. Dust and smoke filled the room, and Bob began to cough. Bob coughing persisted, and he began to cough out blood.
To Bob, his fear heightened because he feared he had contracted tuberculosis, but that mattered little to him. The event before his eyes was weightier.
The room was filled with skeletons smoking, drinking and dancing to a horrifying music from a band they had set up. A skeleton was playing the guitar, so was a skeleton manning the drums and another, the keyboard. A skeleton dressed like a rockstar was on the microphone. It was unbelievable to Bob.
Bob uncontrollably looked on, and in no time, the skeletons numbering over twenty began to all dance close to him. He began hitting the door hardly. They came closer and closer with their frightening laughter. Bob knew his case was a closed one.
They came too close to him, and just a two second-distance away from him, the door flung open, and he ran out. He ran with all his strenght fearing that the skeletons would give him a chase.
After running quite a distance, he stopped on a very quiet and lonely street. He sat on the ground, panting as if he had lifted a 1000-kg weight. Before he could think of what happened right before his eyes in his apartment, something else very strange began to happen before his eyes.
Bob concluded that was his last night on earth!
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 7:16am On Feb 01|
I'm going to finish this story because of you.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ann2012(f): 8:15am On Feb 01|
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Teddiie(f): 10:01am On Feb 01|
|Re: One Night Of Terror by LightQueen(f): 10:14am On Feb 01|
Cool.. Continue pls
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ayemileto(m): 3:22pm On Feb 01|
Nice story OP.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 8:31pm On Feb 03|
Bob Sheider had every cause to be afraid. Anyone would be! Meeting the skeletons of one’s grandparents in one’s apartment would make anyone lose his or her mind, but Bob was able to survive the fever, and even went ahead to converse with the skeletons.
Bob was convinced it was his last night on earth when the dead street he ran to began to transform into the neighborhood where he was born, and grew. It was a suburb of the major city. It had just one long road running across it, and that was its unique feature.
Bob was the first child of his family who was born at a local clinic at the end of the street at about 5 AM. His birth was on a cold September in a time when Willbough Street was known for bronzecasting. His parents were young couples who both worked in a merchant store in the main city. Bob last saw the clinic at age 12 when his family moved to the main city after his father got a better job.
He attended Ivy School, the only primary and secondary school that stood boldly at the middle of the street. It was one of the very few things the community was proud of. The school was striking for the fact that it was never painted. The reason for that was a hot meat of debate for drunks every evening. In this school did Bob shine as a little boy. He always topped the class that everyone expected him to be a doctor, and get a job in one big hospital in the city. But Bob loved football.
So he spent his early age as a Ronaldinho in the large expanse of land close to the school, which was converted to a football field. No stadium was better. Bob’s addiction to football made him rebellious to his parents instructions. Rather going home after school, he went to the field. There he would stay till his mother came looking for him, with a cane of course!
The popular-than-life bar was next to the large building where Bob and his family lived. Every evening was a party. Bob never attended until he was ten when he started stealing into the bar to watch ladies dance, and fill his nostrils with the smoke that emerged from the ciggaretes burning non-stop.
Willbough street never went dead. Bod moved out of its life 28 years ago. Now, Willbough street came into his life without invitation. The street lights began to turn into the trees that lined the dusty streets of Willbough street. Bob jumped up and wiped his hands with his eyes. Of course he was seeing properly: trees, not street lights. Bob’s face had been transformed into that of an old man by fear. “Unbelievable!” he muttered.
Before he could assimilate the dawning but scary reality, his entire body began to shake as the ground vibrated. “What the hell is happening?” he screamed, but no one answered. He definitely was not expecting any answer. He looked to the ground, and saw the tar on the road folding up. He looked across the street, and thesame thing was happening.
His bones cracked when his feet began to swim involuntarily. The tar turned into water, and after some seconds, it began to rush into the ground like the rain does during and after rainfall. To Bob, he was living the worst part of his life. Then a gentle breeze blew, and Bob was standing right on the sandy ground of Willbough street where he last stood two years away from three decades ago.
Bob was frightened, but an interest was developing great within him. The building at his front changed into the school where he had learned ABCD, and the football field where he last displayed his football skills appeared next to it. The church building opposite the school then also appeared, and Bob began to laugh at himself.
Thunder stuck repeatedly. Bob fell to the ground with a thud. A dusty wind blew across the street, and Bob Sheider fell flat on his face as the earthquake struck, and his bones crunched. Several minutes later, he rose up as streams of dust still danced lazily in the air. Bob heard the siren blow and he thought probably help had come to him in his misery. The only persons he had seen since his terrifying ordeal began were the skeletons of his grandparents.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ann2012(f): 10:35pm On Feb 03|
Na wa oooo
Thanks for the update
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ayemileto(m): 4:05pm On Feb 18|
OP, come and update ooo.
|Re: One Night Of Terror by smithgrame: 12:59pm On Feb 23|
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|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 10:34am On May 17|
Chapter 3 continued
So Bob ran as fast as his tiny legs could carry him to the direction where the siren came from. He was not going to miss out of the help. And when he got to the place, it was a hospital, and a pregnant woman had just been brought in. She was in severe labour. Something hit Bob’s heart. The woman’s face was familiar, so was the face of the nurse attending to her. It was the same vehicle that brought her that year.
He was nine years old when the same scene occured while he yet lived at Willbough Street. He had passed by the hospital that night in one of his escapades of running away from home, and had seen the same woman rushed into the hospital in exactly the same manner. Now, it was all playing out again. The woman was later reported to have died with the child, and little Bob could not help but feel sorry for them. Here was the scene again.
Fear gripped Bob, his teeth began to chatter, and sweat began to gush out of his skin, and his head was about to shatter. He wanted to develop wings and fly away, but that was an impossibility. This was the clinic where Bob was born. This was the clinic where the woman had died. How come the woman was there again? He turned to leave, but he heard his named called out by a beautiful voice.
He turned, and standing before him was the woman that had just been rushed into the hospital. Her baby perfectly cuddled in her arms. Bob could not believe his eyes. He was shocked to his bones. The woman looked adorably at him, and said:
“We are at peace, and we do exist.”
Then Bob summoned up courage and walked towards her. He looked at her in the eye, pointing his fingers violently at her.
“You died! You died when I was a child, you died.” Bob shouted to the woman, and kept his fingers pointed at her like a father warning her daughter.
“Yes I died several years ago, yet I live. I live in the life eternal, I and my baby.” She said smiling.
“What life is that?” Bob inquired obviously flabbergasted.
“It is the life people do not have to see death. It is a life of peace and tranquility. A life of peace, joy and fulfillment. A life void of struggles, sorrows, sufferings and shame.” She lectured Bob proudly.
And he looked at her interestingly, and said, “I am not dead, but you are dead. How come we are talking to each other? You are in a dead life, but I am in a life yet to die. What is the connection between us?”
The woman looked at him intently. “You are in the Willbough street of ghosts.”
The sound of that from the woman’s pretty lips completely paralyzed every ounce of courage Bob Sheider had left in him. The woman walked closer to Bob, smiling broadly. Just two centimeters away from Bob, he asked Bob to help him carry her baby. Bob did not think twice. He turned round and started running. He had no direction or destination, but he kept running until he bumped into someone.
He fell to the ground with bruises on his knees. He managed to stand to his feet, and blood was dripping from his nose. A large hand rested on his shoulder, and another hand gave him an handkerchief. Bob took it, raised his head up to see the kind stranger. Seeing the face, fear enveloped him, and the handkerchief fell from his hands.
Standing before him was a tall man with a rain coat on. His face also was familiar to Bob.
“Hell!” Bob shouted as he remembered that he was his friend that had died while they were children. He died on Willbough Street.
Although Willbough street was pretty dark this night, save for the little light that emanated from lanterns in people’s homes through the windows, he could clearly see the face of Fred who had died while they were eight years of age when he fell into a well and drowned. Now, he was a grown up man.
This struck Bob with fear. He still could recognize him. How did he grow? He was supposed to be dead, but here he was alive, strong, and offering Bob an handkerchief to wipe blood off his face. Bob looked at Fred closely.
“Tell me you are not a ghost.”
|Re: One Night Of Terror by TheWritingHub(m): 10:35am On May 17|
I've updated now. Thanks
|Re: One Night Of Terror by Ayemileto(m): 1:50pm On May 17|
Wow, thanks bro.
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