Short Story : Death Trap

Death Trap

I ran as fast as I could and, behind me, I could hear the creatures, whimpering, snarling and panting. As I scrambled up the slope to the house, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that those creatures had stopped running after me. They seemed to be held back by a force field or something. They banged against the invisible barrier, but never managed to get through. I looked at the rotten wooden door two feet before me and saw the demoniacal creatures. It's now or never, I thought to myself. Without another look back, I took a step closer to the house. Once I touched the door handle, the force field started to disappear. My eyes widened in shock and horror as the disgusting foul smelling creatures slowly advanced on me. A heavily scarred four-legged creature stepped forward. "You can run but you most certainly cannot hide from us, silly child," the demonic thing growled sinisterly.

"Holy peanuts, you can talk!" I thought. I gasped and stumbled back in shock, falling directly through the decayed door right into the house. I fell on my bum, my hands breaking my fall just in the nick of time. The demonic thing I saw was no more there. I glanced upwards. I saw a giant dusty chandelier hanging from above. It looked as if it hung in thin air. It was an amazing thing to see, but this house gave me the creeps. The next thing that caught my attention was the dust coated portraits hanging on the red wallpapered walls. The faces of the people in the pictures had been clawed out. I ran my fingers gently over each clawed out portrait. My pink and brown coloured sneakers made soft squeaky sounds as I walked along the floor, examining each portrait with interest and curiosity.

When I reached the last picture, I could not help but just stare at it for a while longer. Something about this picture made it so real- too real. I just could not put my finger on it. Something about this picture made it somehow very unsettling and macabre. It was the only untouched portrait. It was a picture of a good-looking chef who used to work in the house for decades. He had a demonic glint in his devilish eyes. The caption below said : Mr Bryan Donovan II, head chef for 60 years. In year 1878, Mr Donovan II started his service as a chef in the house at age 30 and was promoted after 20 years of work. Deceased in year .... The sentence was not complete. Actually, once I took a closer look, I realised the sentence was complete. It was scratched out at the end. Who could have done this?

"I did, of course," an ominous toned voice answered. "The very same person from the portrait." I dared not turn around. I dared not make a single movement. My face paled. My body froze. My hands turned cold and sweaty. I might have tinkled in my pants. Butterflies, fairies, sparkles, shoes and pedicures, I chanted in my head. Nobody's there. Nothing to be scared of. It's just my imagination running terribly wild. "To kill or not to kill," the same voice wondered out loud, his tone mockingly contemplative.

I zipped my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut tightly. I walked blindly ahead with my arms outstretched like a zombie. My eyes were still tightly shut.

"Aw, c'mon," whined the voice. "Don't be such an arrogant jerk. Talk to me! Look into my eyes and let me look into your soul." I shook my head vigorously from side to side and kept walking. "You're not scared, are you?" I remained silent. "Oh, c'mon. Talk to me! Talk," he prompted. "Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk to me." Now he was starting to annoy me. "Please," he begged. "Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please."