The Vault of Terror (Haunted)

Can I Come In?

This one here receives a special honor as being the first horror story I ever wrote. It was, in fact, made to stand on its own, written long before I developed the Vault.

The inspiration for the antagonist, known as the Gentleman, comes from a rather odd dream about a sheep attempting to break into my house, but he could not open doors. He would knock and ask if he could come in. When I denied, he would knock again.

Though really it was kind of a hilarious dream, I realized if it had been something besides a sheep, the whole ordeal could have been terrifying. So, along with my love of clowns and the common knowledge that many are afraid of the dark, the Gentleman was born.

Dedicated to @Lighten, a good friend from narr8 and one of the first people to read this tale.

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I was walking home from a party with my friend Ryan when it all started. He had been drinking heavily, and I was helping him walk as he muttered things about the apocalypse.

"You are never touching alcohol ever again," I told him. He stared at me, then started giggling and fell to the ground. I rolled my eyes and kneeled down to pick him up and noticed a figure in the distance. We were on a long street, it was almost midnight, I could only see it through the mist by the shining of the street lights. It was too far to make out a face, but I could tell it was very tall and that it was looking straight at us.

"Hey Ryan," I whispered. "Just for a second, could you not be drunk so we can go?" I dragged him to his feet and started to pull him away, I told him to keep quiet. So of course he started singing HollaBack Girl.

We got to the end of the block when I summed up the courage to look back. The figure had not moved from his spot.

I marched Ryan onto the next street as quick as possible, telling him to shut up as he was whistling to Deck the Halls now. I didn't stop until we had arrived at his house and dumped him on his porch. I stalled for as long as possible, but realizing I couldn't stay, I strolled into the street, cautiously looking around. The man was nowhere to be found.

I started to relax a little. Just because I had caught a intimidating figure staring at me and my friend in the middle of the night, it didn't necessarily mean he was some kind of criminal. I cursed myself for being so stupid. Relaxed now, I cockily strolled down the street. If in the event that I was attacked, I could probably handle myself. I was fifteen, six two, one hundred ninety-two pounds. Besides, I lived in one of the most boring neighborhoods in the United States. There was never any crime.

When I arrived at my street, however, I was overcome by a suspicious feeling that I couldn't place. I warily moved my head from side to side, but the only signs of life were me and the two pigeons on the Stratenburg's house.

I was certain there was nothing there, but it was just too creepy out here. I picked up my pace, up my front lawn and onto the front porch. I pulled out my keys and looked around one more time, just to reassure myself. What I saw nearly gave me a heart attack.

There he was, that menacing form, right at the edge of the street. It was just like last time, he was simply watching me, just like last time, until, with a brisk pace, he started to move towards my house.

I almost screamed, I turned around and jammed the key into the keyhole. I desperately tried to turn it, but it wouldn't. With a start, I realized I had put it in the upside down. I desperately tried to pull it out, and did something that definitely didn't help: I looked back. He was already practically here, coming up the driveway.

I finally got the key out, then stuck it back in. I turned it to the left, then pushed open the door and climbed into the doorway.

"What's the rush?" I heard behind me. Then I made a decision I have regretted forever: I turned to look at this man.