Tales of Terror

11. The Garage

Ever since my wife passed, it's been me, my daughter of seven, and my youngest boy of eleven months. It's not easy being a full-time parent, while still trying to make ends meet. Government allowances give you enough for bread and butter, but you got to work for the meat on top.

I freelance a lot, in between diaper changes and settling wee baby down. You'd think that's the biggest of my troubles. Truth is, ever since my wife died, my daughter, Sophie, has been shit scared of our downstairs garage.

During the day, she plays with her little brother, Lucas. But as soon as it gets dark, she talks about the 'something' down there.

"Dad, please," Sophie says. "I can hear it talking at night."

I get a chill down my spine whenever she speaks like that. But I put it down to her mother's passing.

"Soph, I've been in that garage," I say. "There's nothing there."

Sophie nods, but at night she brings her pillow and bear to my room. I sleep on one end of the bed, her on the other, with Lucas in between us.

Sometimes when I wake, I'll find her curled up right next to Lucas and during the bad nights, she'll be shaking and talking in her sleep.

Those nights are the hardest to stomach.

"You were really scared last night," I say.

She nods and rocks Lucas on her lap.

"Is it the garage?"

Sophie nods.

"Tonight, I'll take you in there and prove there's nothing to worry about."

Sophie shakes her head.

"Lucas needs a brave sister," I say.

Sophie hesitates, looks at Lucas, and then nods.

That night, just before ten, we put Lucas to bed and I take Sophie downstairs to the garage.

I step through the door first. Sophie reaches for the light. I shake my head.

"We're going to go in the dark, I have my phone light." I flash my phone torch on and off.

Sophie bites her lip and brings her hand back down to her side. Her fingers shake and eyes dart left and right at the darkness.

"Come on, Soph," I say, stepping into the garage, past the cars, and old boxes of my wife's belongings. I turn around and Sophie is still by the door.

"Be a brave girl," I say.

Sophie shakes her head. "Can't you hear it, Dad."

I strain to hear, turning my ear ahead toward the darkness. A soft noise, like the whimper of an injured animal, comes from the far corner.

It grows louder with each step forward. I flick on my phone flashlight, working past the stacks of boxes. There's someone there, a frail body, still alive, but weak and tied up.

I tear the duct tape from its mouth and shine the torch down on its bruised face.

"Dad," the little girl says.

My heart races in my chest. "Sophie?"

"Dad, that thing in the house, it isn't me."

The garage door slams shut.

-- No_Tale (via Reddit)