My house is old. It's by far the oldest house on our block. We tried to liven it up, to make it comfy, and and we did a pretty good job. We put colorful rugs on the freezing concrete, lamps in every corner. Every room was nice and modern-except the basement.
When I was a little kid, I would sprint up the stairs coming up from the basement. I don't know what I was afraid of. Maybe a ghost, or a monster in the dark behind me, waiting for me to turn around so it can catch me and... I don't know what it would do.
But now, as a seventeen year old boy, I'm walking up the stairs from my basement, and my childish fears, long repressed, are coming back. I tell myself to shut up, but that dark part in the back of my head tells me to run, to get out NOW. More than anything I want to rocket up those stairs as I did as a child, but I force my feet to take even, normal steps. I feel the overwhelming urge to look behind me, but I also want to win the battle of paranoia that's going on in my brain.
So I slowly walk up the seemingly endless staircase, my palms sweating and my heart racing the entire way. But about ten steps from the top, I feel an ice cold hand close around my ankle.
YOU ARE READING
Creepyskullz Book Of Creepypastas
Horrorthe best of creepypastas all put together in one book. the best kind of book to read in a creaky old house under your covers with an almost dead flashlight.
