A Stormy Night: Stories to Read by Candlelight

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"Hello folks, do I have just the thing for you!" Harold said as he reached into his briefcase, "the brand new-" He was cut off by the slamming of another front door in his face. Harold let out a heavy sigh as he knelt back down and placed his things back into the bag, before grabbing it and his hat and walking back onto the street. It had been a long day going from door to door, and a long day of feeling the push of wind in his face as the doors slammed, one by one.

Now, Harold moved to his next house, a small, pale pink building right next to the last one, with a deflated beach ball in the front yard. The grass was browned and crispy, and the paint on the small porch had since begun to wither away, leaving the wood beneath it to rot and decay. The steps had bowed in onto themselves, and the nails holding them together were rusted and browned with age. He looked around him but saw and heard nothing but the calm breeze blew through the fence that ran around the yard, and whose paint was chipped with age.

Harold stepped onto the creaking porch, being careful to watch out for the spots of soft boards and pointy nails, and walked up to the door. Though it was closed, he could smell the mustiness from within, and a bead of moss formed at each of the windows, sealing them off from the rest of the world, but allowing the smell of age to seep out from inside. He looked left and right before he made a fist and knocked sternly on the door, and watched as it pushed forward and swung open with an eerie creak. It stopped when it hit a container behind it to the left, and the subsequent crash of a metal coat rack echoed through the seemingly empty house.

"Hello?" He shouted questioningly into the darkness as he stood there, wondering why no one was home, and fearing as he grabbed his case and stepped in the door. He took in the condition of the living room to his left. There sat two couches and an end table which stood askew on its crooked legs. In front of him was the kitchen and as he walked in further, he saw that the dishes were sitting on a drying rack. A knife sat on the edge of the counter to his right, and its rusty blade blended in with the surroundings. The sinks, while empty, were dirty and smelled of rotting food, causing Harold to drop his case on the dirty floor and cover his nose. He looked around him at the general state of must in the dining room and adjoining living room and gagged slightly. When he looked back up, he noticed an outline in the dust where the kitchen knife had been, and when he turned around, he felt a warm sensation in his stomach as the blade plunged itself into his stomach and blood poured out onto his clothing. He looked down at the knife fumbled with it before he slumped down against the dirty kitchen counter. He looked up, but all he saw was a shadow as slowly, his vision faded to black.

"Harold!" A female voice shouted as Harold felt himself being shaken, "Harold, get up!" Harold opened his eyes and blinked twice,

"What's going on?" He asked as he sat up in bed, "What time is it?" He looked over at the alarm clock near his bed and realized he was late.

"You were having a nightmare," a woman said as Harold climbed out of bed, "you seemed pretty shaken up, do you remember what you dreamed?"

"No," Harold said as he quickly threw on his clothes and grabbed his briefcase, "I'll see if I can remember it today."

"Don't you have time for breakfast?" The woman asked, "I made eggs for you." Harold shook his head,

"I don't have the time," he said, pointing to the clock, "I was supposed to have been out there an hour ago." He slid his tie over his neck and tightened it down as he slipped his feet into a pair of shoes that sat near the bedside. He grabbed his hat and placed it onto his head, and without another word, Harold descended the stairs and walked out the front door of his small, pink house and took in the air. There was a small beach ball that rolled around in the front lawn, and that bounced off of the freshly painted fence that ran around his yard. He smiled and wandered out across the street and knocked on his first door, which swung open wide to reveal a woman in her thirties looking around,

"Hello?" She asked.

"Who is it darling?" A male voice shouted from within the house.

"I don't know," the woman replied as she shut the door in Harold's face, "there was no one there."

"Hah," the male voice replied jokingly, "guess it must be a ghost!"