Halloween Ghost Story Contest -- 2020
Adult Winners

First Place

---

Our first place Adult category winner is Daniel Brookshire of Anderson, South Carolina.

---

Footsteps

by
Daniel Brookshire

Footsteps...

I hear them all the time. They keep me awake at night, and they are always there. Oh sure, I can ignore them, and I certainly try. Sometimes it’s easy, but that “sometimes” is never late at night when the sun has vanished from the skies, and those dark shadows come slithering from the corners of the room. Those times are the worst, the time when the footsteps come out to play.

I haven’t always heard them. There was a time when I didn’t hear them at all. They started in June as I recall, right around the time I moved to Lafayette. It was right after I inherited Uncle Wag’s place at the end of Dorsey Street on the southside of town, the old house with the green shutters and the crumbling chimney. I was going to fix it up; I just never got around to it. I’m a handyman, you see, or at least I was. I was a housing contractor in the middle of the building boom, right up until the crash in ‘08 when the wheels came off the bus, and my business crumbled beneath my feet. I made a lot of money in those days, as a matter of fact; a lot of folks would have called me rich. My divorce took care of that though. When the dust finally settled, and the paperwork was signed; there wasn’t much left.

My wife put the V in vengeance, and she came after me with all the rage and rancor of a woman scorned. You know what they say: “Hell hath no fury.” She took everything, and I do mean everything. I was broker than hell in the summer of ‘09. My business was hemorrhaging cash and I was getting sued from every direction. I had a warehouse full of merchandise going into repo, a narcotics charge pending on my record, and two DUI’s looking over my shoulder. My stepdaughter was pregnant and screaming for support, and my one and only asset, that mammoth pile of bricks that Sheila and I owned in Brentwood, was upside down in debt. The former Mrs. Davenport was demanding her “rightful share”, but my credit was over extended, and my finances were teetering on the brink. So I decided to go for broke. I pulled the plug and declared the big B.

That’s right friends and neighbors, I declared Chapter 7 and Chapter 11. When I go belly-up I don’t mess around. I left the life of the rich and famous and headed east. My Uncle Wagner had been a lifelong bachelor, and for whatever reason, he had decided to leave his glorious estate to me in the last vestiges of his will. It had all come about very suddenly. I had driven over to Fresno in May, and finished up with the attorneys. Everything had gone into receivership, and believe me, it had been a circus.

The media had been banging on the doors, and there were more news trucks than you could shake a stick at. The police had been forced to escort me from the attorney’s office, and I’d had more microphones shoved in my face than I care to remember. Sure, there had been drugs. Sure, I’d laundered money. Sure, people had gotten screwed, but hey, that was life. I had gone back to my hotel and gotten plastered. I’d spent the next three days dining on room service and pouring liquor down my throat. It was my way of dealing with the world. It was Monday when I got the call about Uncle Wag. I hadn’t seen the man in years, and to be totally honest, I had just about written him off. Dad’s family was far-flung and even farther removed, and I assumed that Uncle Wag had already joined the rest of the clan in that eternal dirt nap ages ago. So, you can imagine my surprise when I got the call letting me know that Wagner Davenport had just crossed over to the Great Beyond, and named me, nephew Don, as his one and only beneficiary. Needless to say, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

When I heard the words “beneficiary and estate”, I envisioned a sizable chunk of cash, at least enough to get me back on my feet. Sad to say, but that just wasn’t the case. Uncle Wag hadn’t had much; just that crumbling old house in Lafayette, two ancient pick-up trucks, a house full of moldy furniture, and five-hundred and thirty-seven dollars and thirteen cents stashed away in a saving’s account at East Franklin Bank and Trust.

Still, for a man who had just lost everything, the news of my uncle’s death was like a lifeline on a raging sea. My divorce was final, so was my bankruptcy. So, whatever I managed to find, steal or inherit was mine to keep. Sheila couldn’t touch it, and all those damned collection agencies, circling the waters like ravaging sharks, would have to go elsewhere for their evening meal. So, I packed up my meager belongings, said good-bye to the land of fame and excess and turned my eyes to the east. I was moving to Tennessee.

To be perfectly honest, I was pretty disappointed in Uncle Wag’s place the first time I saw it. It was literally falling apart. The roof leaked, the paint was peeling; the property was overgrown; the front porch was rotten, and all the rooms smelled like wet dog. The plumbing was sub-standard; the electricity didn’t work; the well had gone dry, and a colony of bats had taken up residence in one of the storage sheds. Still, the house belonged to me, and that was something to be proud of. For once in my life I wasn’t consumed with debt. I had a little breathing room, and for the first time in years I felt like my head was finally above water. It was a new start and a new beginning. I had lived to see the sun break through the storm, and suddenly, everything was turning my way.

It was Friday, June 13^th when I first heard the footsteps…

I had turned in early that night. As a matter of fact, I turned in early every night. I was tired of the wild life, the partying, the drinking and the drugs. I had joined a local AA, and I was going to the meetings. I was exercising, jogging two miles a day and pumping iron in the afternoon. I was also working on the house. I had 50,000 dollars stashed away in a secret account down in the Cayman’s. It had been the one and only asset that the lawyers hadn’t found. At one point, I’d had a lot of cash stashed away, but Sheila’s attorneys and those bankruptcy bastards had tracked down most of the money. Now, Donald Davenport, multi-millionaire and contract developer was reduced to this: A ramshackle old house in the hills of Tennessee with a measly 50,000 dollars pining away in a secret account in the Caribbean.

Still, I was anonymous here. Lafayette didn’t know me. They had no idea who I was, where I came from, or what I might have done. Uncle Wag’s place stood alone and forgotten at the end of Dorsey Street with nothing but dark, dismal trees to keep it company. The place was quiet and secluded, and it gave me time to think. It gave me time to reflect and re-consider my life, or at least, what was left of it. It gave me a chance to think about Sheila and what might have been.

For Sheila, you see, had turned up missing…

I had gotten the call from a Detective Richardson just a few days after I’d made the move. Sheila had disappeared after a night of partying at one of the local clubs. It wasn’t that big of a deal, at least not at first. Sheila was impetuous, and she had a history of running off on the spur of the moment. I’d tried to explain all of this to the police, but for some reason, they were taking the case much more serious than I would have expected.

Richardson had asked me a lot of questions, and of course, he had wanted to know where I was the day Sheila vanished. I told him the truth. After all, I had nothing to hide. I was in Fresno, signing away the last of my bankruptcy. It was all over the damned news, didn’t he watch TV? I had no idea where Sheila was, and I didn’t care. The woman had just about destroyed me. Still, it is a little disconcerting when your ex suddenly vanishes, and I knew Richardson wasn’t going away any time soon. I was a suspect, like it or not.

I explained to the detective that I had made plans to move back east. It had been in the works for some time. I needed a new start, a new outlook on life. Still, it did seem pretty suspicious: Sheila turning up missing and me blowing town just a few days later, but my uncle had died. He had left me some land and a house. I had nowhere else to go, no income, no money; nothing. What was I supposed to do?

Richardson told me that the investigation would be proceeding, and that the department would be checking up on my alibi. Hell man, knock yourself out; my face had been all over the local news; a thousand people had seen me in Fresno. I had checked into the Hyatt Regency at 3 o’clock and proceeded to get plastered. I hadn’t stuck my head out the door for three days. The hotel staff could attest to that. I couldn’t have been involved in Sheila’s disappearance. There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle, no sign of blood; no sign of anything. Sheila had probably taken off to Cancun or Jamaica for the week. She would turn up in a day or two, just give her some time.

Still, Richardson had told me to stay in touch, and I had done my best to comply. I had called the LAPD on a daily basis, trying to garner some news about my ex. She was probably lying on a beach somewhere, drinking Pina Coladas and wallowing in the sand. God knows she had plenty of money, every dime I had ever made to be exact. Isn’t it amazing what a little affair can do for your life? Mine had cost me everything.

The footsteps had come in the middle of the night, like some lurid dream belching out of the darkness…

I was in bed, drowning in the deepest of sleep, when something darted out of the shadows and raked its nails right across my spine. I remember sitting up and staring at the murky darkness as my wild eyes pried at the shadows. For a moment I thought I saw something drift past the corners of the room, but when I looked again it was gone. I reached over to the clock and checked the time. It was 3:35, far too early for things to go bump in the night. I was just about to turn over and go back to sleep when I heard it again, a quite falter just outside my door. Something went scurrying down the hall, something fast and wary. I sat up and listened to the quite murmur around me. The crickets chimed in the darkness, a faint creaking rumbled across the front porch, the clock in the foyer ticked away the minutes, and…

There were footsteps in the corridor…

Now you may think I’m crazy; everyone tells me that these days. You may think that I was still half-asleep and imagining things. You may think that old houses settle, and strange noises come and go. You may think that it was the wind, or mice, or a whiff of nightmare, but you would be wrong.

I was Donald T. Davenport and I had just heard something in the darkness. A faint muffled sound had trotted past my line of sight. It was hiding from my prying eyes, but it wanted me to know it was there. I could hear the faint echo of its breathing floating in the darkness. I could just catch the scratch of its fingernails scrapping along the woodwork. A strange chuckle came slipping out of the darkness, and then those muffled feet fluttered away, rushing down the hall and into foyer where they seemed to vanish.

I slipped my .45 from beneath the bed and jacked a round into the chamber. I put on a pair of old sweats, and tied up my tennis shoes. The moon was calling from the silent skies and a ghostly white was dancing through the windows. The house seemed dark and silent, and the old hinges creaked as I opened the bedroom door. I made my way along the baseboards, pressing my back against the wall as I edged down the corridor to the living room. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was in the house; that it had slithered past my door and that even now it was crouching in that unreachable darkness, watching me and gathering its strength.

The living room was quiet and deserted. The moon was filtering through the trees and it cast a motley glow over the furniture. The shadows seemed a little longer than normal, maybe a little deviant, but even as my eyes continued to pry at the darkness, I slowly realized that there was nothing there. I was alone in that drafty old house with the creaking porch and the peeling paint.

My fingers reached out to play with the switch at the corner of the room. The over-head light blazed into life, and those odd shadows darted away. The room was silent and empty. The front door was locked and the dead-bolt was engaged. Nothing moved in that silent void beyond the windowpanes, and the pounding in my chest slowly began to subside.

I let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall while my fingers toyed with the .45. The barrel was dark blue and it caught the light with a feeble glow. The moon throbbed through the windowpanes. The crickets chirped in the twilight. The house was silent and still, and I was starting to feel a little silly. I was just about to cut off the lights, and head back to bed when a scurrying sound from the top of the stairs suddenly caught my attention. The sound of movement came from the second floor, and then the unmistakable padding of feet as someone hurried down the hall. The hair on the back of my neck began to bristle, and goose bumps ran up and down my spine.

Someone was in the house.

I hadn’t imagined it after all. Someone was actually here. They were upstairs right now, wandering up and down the hall. I could hear them at the end of the corridor, rattling the doors and walking across the creaking floor. The joists above my head squeaked and groaned as the footsteps hurried along. I could hear them plain as day, and my blood ran cold as I stood there and listened.

I flipped the safety off the Colt and turned toward the stairs. The old risers creaked and grumbled as I started to climb. I heard movement at the end of the hall. Someone shuffled across the hardwood, and there was a click as one of the bedroom doors softly closed. Whoever was up there was trying to be quiet, but they were doing a rather piss poor job of it.

I came to the 2nd landing and brought the .45 down in a shooter’s stance. My eyes probed the darkness, shifting from left to right as I sought some sign of movement in the vast, empty shadows. Slowly, I started down the hall. There were five rooms upstairs, one bath and four bedrooms. All the doors were shut. I never left them open. The upstairs depressed me. It was dusty and vacant, and there was a strange air of neglect that seemed to seep from the walls. My eyes slowly fell to the dusty hardwood, and if my blood hadn’t been icy before, it certainly was now.

Footprints…

Yes, there were footprints in the thin layer of dust that covered the floor.

Bare footprints…

Small…

Delicate…

Like a woman…

Or a child…

The realization that my intruder wasn’t a full-grown man gave me some measure of relief. At least I didn’t have to worry about some burly lumberjack pouncing on my back. Still, the idea that anyone could be up here was enough to unnerve me. How in the world had they gotten in? The doors were locked, none of the windows were open, and why in the name of God would you simply crawl into someone’s home in the middle of the night and start wandering around in the first place?

Something was amiss, something in the wind and the crooked shafts of light. That tingling sensation was back again, ripping up and down my spine like a jagged piece of glass. I heard something scamper across the floor, and a door closed somewhere in the shadows. I cocked the .45 and slowly started to move again. The hallway was dark and dingy. A thin layer of dust hung in the air. Those eerie, naked footprints slithered across the floor, picking their way over the worn decking. I stopped in front of the last door and stood there sniffing at the wind. Something was standing on the other side; I could feel it. It was there with its ear pressed against the woodwork, listening…

I’d had enough for one night, and without any pretense or fanfare, I seized the knob and kicked the door open. I came into the room in a shooter’s stance, just like they do on TV. My eyes scanned the corners, checking the musty room for movement. I had my finger on the trigger and was ready to shoot, but to my amazement, I found the room empty.

Uncle Wag didn’t have a lot of furniture, and most of the second floor was devoid of any trappings. It was just a dusty old room, full of cobwebs and empty space. I stepped around the door in a wide arc with the .45 at the ready. I was certain I would find someone crouched in the corner leering at me with crazy, bulging eyes, but I was wrong. There was nothing there at all. The closet suddenly caught my eye. The tarnished old door sat silent and brooding across the room, daring me to open it. I came across the room in a dead run, and jerked the door open with one hard tug, scattering dust and cobwebs in my wake.

Nothing…

I glanced around the room, my eyes roving over every nook and cranny. Despite the rumblings I had listened to downstairs; the room was empty. I flipped the safety on the Colt, and slowly turned for the door. It was only then that I glanced at the floor. That same layer of dust coated the room from top to bottom. Apparently, it had been some time since Uncle Wag had opened a window. A cold lump seemed to form in my throat. My own tracks were visible and clear all the way from the door to the closet. You could easily see where I had burst into the room. You could see how I had darted around the door to check that dangerous corner hidden from my view. You could see how I had dashed across the floor to the closet, and you could easily discern where the door had been dragged across the floor boards.

You could see the others too…

Those tiny, feminine prints of bare feet and toes…

They were the same prints I had seen in the hallway. They had stood close to the door for several minutes, as if someone had had their ear pressed against the frame, listening for my approach. Then they had darted away, dancing across the room in small leaping strides before vanishing into the woodwork.

I cut on all the lights and went from room to room. I opened all the closet doors and checked every corner. I looked behind the heavy drapes and under the piano. I checked the chimney and the cupboards. I rattled the knobs on the doors, making sure they were locked. I checked the windows and searched for a sign of forced entry. There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing…

I ended up in the kitchen, sitting in a chair, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the walls.

What the hell was going on? Was I seeing things? Had I lost my mind?

There had been something upstairs.

I had heard it. Heck, I had seen it.

Or had I?

An old house, a troubled sleep, these things had been known to play tricks on a man.

Maybe it was just my imagination.

Maybe I had been dreaming…

But then my mind went back to those footprints scattered around the room.

They had been so clear…

So well defined….

I shook my head to clear away the cobwebs and took a long gulp from my mug. The coffee hit the spot, but what I really wanted was a stiff shot. I was literally craving it, but I had been on the wagon now for almost three weeks, and I was proud of it. I wasn’t about to jeopardize it just because my mind was a little rattled. No, what I needed was something to do, and since it was already after five, there was no use going back to bed. I was up, and I might as well stay up. After all, I had plenty of work to do.

I went into the living room and attacked the walls. I had started painting the hallway the day before, but now I tore into it like a man possessed. I slung paint from the bucket like there was no tomorrow, running the roller in long strokes from the floor to the ceiling. I tried to put everything out of my mind. I tried to forget about the night and those phantom footsteps. I tried to forget about my bankruptcy and the state of my affairs. I tried to forget about my divorce and I especially tried to forget about Sheila. As far as I knew, she was still missing. Lieutenant Richardson and his lackluster investigation had run into a brick wall. No one had seen Sheila for the past three weeks. There was no record of her leaving the country, no calls to friends or family, no ransom demands, and no activity on her bank account. As much as I wanted to believe that my wife was on a beach in Mexico, I had to admit that it was unlikely. The woman loved money, and she would have needed some by now. She would have gone to an ATM and made a withdrawal. She would have put something on her credit card. She would have called her father for a money gram. She would have done something…

Anything.

The fact that nothing had been done: no word, no sightings, no phone calls, all of that gave me cause for concern. Something had happened to my ex-wife.

I was sure of it.

Sometime around 10 o’clock, I got sick of painting and decided to go for a run. The living room was basically finished, and I had to stand back and admire my work. The hall was complete, the baseboards had been touched up, and I had cleaned the downstairs from floor to ceiling. All of the broken windows had been replaced. The masonry around the fireplace had been shored up, and the entire house had suddenly taken on a look of resurrection. Now the only thing I needed was to ride over to Home Depot and pick up some lumber to replace all those rotting boards out on the front porch.

I slipped into the bedroom, shedding my paint smeared sweats along the way. My cell was lying on the nightstand, and there were three missed calls. One was from my sister in Pasadena. She always called at least once a week to check in. The other two were more dire. Both were from the LAPD, one from Lieutenant Richardson and the other from his partner, Brent Grimes. That cold lump was back in my throat again, and without even thinking, I put the phone back in its resting place and slowly backed away. I didn’t need any more bad news at the moment. If the police had found Sheila they would call back. If they hadn’t found her they were sure to call back. I’d deal with them later. Right now, what I really needed was some fresh air.

Dorsey Street was nothing more than a crumbling slab of asphalt, running like a jagged scar across the southern face of Lafayette, Tennessee. There were only eight houses lining the narrow track as it slithered through the thick woods, and all of them were slowly moldering back into the tough Tennessee soil. At least three of the old homes sat abandoned. Their vacant, dirty windows starred out at the world with hollow, bewildered eyes. The other four served as the residence for some of Lafayette’s old and forgotten. The average age of my neighbors appeared to be around 85. All of them were bent and ancient from their long days beneath the Southern sun, and they were far too old to pay any attention to me.

Jogging, I have found, is very therapeutic. It clears the mind and gives you a chance to think. I was thinking now and thinking hard. I was worried about my ex. I know it sounds crazy, especially after all the crap she had put me through, but part of me still loved Sheila. In spite of everything, it was still there. Sheila was only 22 when we married. I, on the other hand, had been closing in on 50. We had spent eight years together, and all we had managed to do was drift further apart. I had married Sheila for her looks. She had married me for my money. Her good looks were still there. My money was all gone.

At the northern end of Dorsey Street there is a particularly lonely stretch of road. The asphalt takes a sharp dip and a steep angle carries you through a thick overhang of trees and vines. It was my least favorite portion of my morning jog, and most of the time, I would turn around and head back to the house rather than go through it. However, on this particular day, I was feeling brave. On this particular day, I lowered my head and plowed right through.

The thick trees were lined with kudzu and, as soon as I started down the first rise, the sun seemed to vanish from the sky, and a thick blanket of darkness fell across the land. It was an eerie feeling, and I found myself quickening my pace. Mosquitos hovered in the air like fog. The humidity was thick and rancid. I lowered my head and threw myself into my work. My legs pumped hard. My breath came quick and fast, and I poured it on as I started up the steep grade.

It was then that I heard it, the echo and fall of feet pounding the pavement behind me. Something rushed up out of the gloom and I felt an icy hand rake across my neck, knocking me off balance.

I actually screamed. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I screamed like a little girl and spun around swinging wild and hard for whatever was behind me. My feet got tangled, and I hit the ground. My teeth came together in a ragged chomp and sliced right through my tongue. It hurt like living hell, and for a moment every light in my skull came unglued.

I sat up and stared at the dark trees looming up around me. The air was thick with malice and dread, and from somewhere in the shadows a faint laughter floated to my ears. I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck and my fingers came away bloody. I caught a faint glimpse of something disappearing into the underbrush. There was a trace of blonde hair and pale skin, and then it was gone. Whatever it was, it seemed to simply vanish, melting away like a puff of smoke.

Slowly, I struggled to my feet. My fingers rubbed at the back of my neck, and a hot, burning sensation raced up my spine. Something was out there. A subtle shape seemed to hover in the shadows. It was watching me, and again I caught the faint sound of laughter floating in the morning air.

Slowly, I backed away. Courage is a fleeting thing and mine was literally hanging by a thread. Suddenly that thread broke and I turned and ran, fleeing for my life as I struggled to get back to the sun. I stumbled out of the shadows, slashing my way through a tangle of limbs and vines. The heavy underbrush melted behind me, and I suddenly found myself alone.

Utterly alone…

I ran my hand across the back of my neck and, once more, my fingers came away bloody. I was still backing away, but my eyes stayed focused on the trees. I could see something hovering in the shadows. It was white and transparent, and I had the distinct impression that it was watching me. I kept backing away, putting as much distance as I could between me and that dark expanse of woods. When I was certain that I was safe, I slowly turned and headed back to the house. I wasn’t jogging now. I was far past that. Now, I was running…

I grabbed my gun and my phone when I got back to the house and beat a hasty retreat out to the front yard. I wanted sunlight and plenty of it. The old house was too dark, too dusty and there were far too many shadows where something might hide. I hated to admit it but I was scared, really scared. Something was stalking me, something cunning and subtle. I had heard it during the night, and now my neck had the scars to prove it.

I had stood in the bathroom for ten minutes with a mirror balanced in my hand as I tried to get a good look at the claw marks across the back of my neck. There were three of them, long lacerations that ran from one side of my scalp to the other. It looked like someone had walked up behind me and raked their nails deep into the skin. It burned like hell and it was still bleeding. It was then that the shadows and the silence had become too much for me to bare, and I had headed outside for sunshine and fresh air. I had stood there for a long time just staring at the house. The windows were dirty with age and neglect, and I kept expecting some horrid face to plaster itself against the glass with a leering smile. That, of course, didn’t happen. Instead, the house just sat there, alone and isolated while those deep woods closed in around it. I kept looking over my shoulder and running my hand across the back of my neck. It was still burning, and the blood just kept coming.

I pulled my cell out of my pocket and studied the screen. There were four missed calls now, three from Los Angeles. With a heavy sigh I hit re-dial, and listened for several seconds as the phone rang in some crowded police precinct half a continent away. On the fourth ring a harried voice picked up, and I suddenly heard the pleasant vocals of Lieutenant Brent Grimes.

“Mr. Davenport. So nice of you to call back.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been pretty busy this morning, been doing a little painting.” The connection was bad, and Grimes’ was breaking up. I had to strain to hear what he was saying.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that your wife is still missing. We haven’t found a body and we haven’t found her, but there are a few new developments we need to talk about.”

I shifted the phone in my hand and studied the edge of the yard. The woods seemed particularly dark and looming there, and for a moment, I was sure I saw something stir in their gloomy depths.

So Sheila was still missing. That made three weeks now, three endless weeks without a word. Somehow it was getting harder and harder to believe that she had simply trotted off to Mexico. No, this was serious. Something dreadful must have happened to her… But what…

“We’ve checked out your alibi, Mr. Davenport, and you were in Fresno over the weekend, that much is true.”

“Yeah and I’ve been telling you that for some time.” I snapped in reply. “It’s so nice of you to confirm what I’ve known all along. I appreciate that, detective.”

Grimes kept talking like I hadn’t said a word. “You stayed in the Hyatt Regency on Decatur Street, Mr. Davenport. We checked the registry and spoke to the manager.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant; again, thank you for confirming the obvious.”

“We also spoke to the night clerk, Mr. Davenport.”

My eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I had caught a change in Grimes’ tone. It had taken on a knowing quality, as if the detective had stumbled upon some vital piece of information, something he had expected all along.

“He says that you left the hotel around mid-night and didn’t return until four in the morning. Does that ring a bell, sir?”

My throat had suddenly gone dry. I didn’t like the implications that Grimes was suddenly tossing around. I had been a suspect in Sheila’s disappearance from day one. We had just been through a rather nasty divorce, and she had gone so far as to get a restraining order. I could see why the police would be suspicious, but I hadn’t harmed Sheila. I would never do such a thing. I loved the woman. In spite of everything, I still had feelings for her. So the idea that I might have been involved in her disappearance was laughable. Besides, I had an alibi. Or so I thought…

Grimes’ voice fluttered through the phone. “You still there, Mr. Davenport?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” But there was a hollow ring to my voice, and I was actually starting to sweat.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?”

“Yeah, that damn clerk doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. I never stuck my nose out the door of that freaking hotel for the entire weekend. I picked up a bottle of tequila and a fifth of Jim Beam, and I was plastered out of my mind by the time midnight rolled around. I could barely walk across the floor, let alone leave the hotel. Check the damned surveillance. Surely a place like the Hyatt Regency has plenty of video cameras to choose from.”

“Well, that’s where things get interesting, Mr. Davenport. The Regency informs us that they were having issues with their surveillance on the weekend in question. The surveillance system went down early Friday and didn’t come back on-line until Tuesday afternoon. So, there is no way we can confirm your alibi.”

That cold lump in the back of my throat got a little colder, and for the first time, I began to doubt. I hadn’t left the hotel that weekend, had I? Surely not. Surely, I would remember, and if I had gone somewhere, I wouldn’t have driven all the way back to LA. It just wasn’t possible.

“Mr. Davenport?” Grimes’ tone was condescending now. He sounded like a man who had just gotten his first big break.

“I didn’t leave the hotel, detective.” I growled in reply. “I can assure you that I spent the entire weekend in Fresno bombed out of my head and dining on room service.”

“That isn’t what the night clerk is telling us, Mr. Davenport.”

“I don’t give a DAMN what the night clerk is telling you! I know the truth!” But my voice wasn’t as steady as I would have liked, and I found myself struggling hard to remember anything from that weekend. The entire episode seemed like a blur, like one big blur without a face.

What if I had driven back to L.A.?

What if…

Grimes’ voice came crackling through the phone again. That note of condescension was still there, maybe a little stronger than before. “Well, Mr. Davenport, that’s exactly what I expected to hear. I’ll say one thing for you, you’re certainly consistent.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well, I hope so for your sake. Stay in touch”

With that, the line went dead, and I was left alone in that big yard with those massive trees and that crumbling old house staring down at me. For a moment I thought about running, really running. I still had around 40 thousand stashed away in the Caymans. What could I do with the money? Where could I go? Forty-grand would go a long way in South America, and I had done a lot of business down there over the years.

I could run and I could hide.

The police were looking for a scapegoat. They had focused on me because I was an easy target. My name had been all over the news. My reputation was ruined, and I was bankrupt; why not add murder to the resume as well? My marriage hadn’t been a happy one. There had been several affairs. I had even hit Sheila on one occasion. I didn’t mean to, but it had happened just the same, and the memory still gnawed at me.

I loved Sheila…

I really loved her…

Why would I hurt her?

Why…

There was an old hammock at the edge of the yard, something Uncle Wag had made very good use of from the look of things. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, and I was dead tired. Add in the commotion of the day, and you can see how exhausted I was. I slipped over to the old oak at the edge of the yard and dropped into the hammock like a dead man. The sky was overcast, and I lay there for several minutes watching the clouds drift by, but the weariness of the day was pulling at me, and before I knew it, I was sound asleep, and it was then that I began to dream.

At first it was just a cabal of nonsense. I dreamed that I was in the living room painting the walls. There was a white elephant in the room and I had to work around it. It kept flicking its trunk, trying to trip me up, and I kept poking at it with my roller because it was snoring.

Then the dream changed, and I was suddenly running in the afternoon heat, and there was something following me, keeping pace through the heavy trees and watching me with cold, malevolent eyes. Then the dream changed again, and I wasn’t in the living room, and I wasn’t in the woods. Instead, I was back at my home in Brentwood and Sheila was there. We were fighting about something, but it was different this time. I was drunk, or at least Sheila kept telling me I was. She was ordering me to leave, threatening to call the police. I wasn’t there to hurt here. I just wanted to talk, but she was angry. She was tired of the lies, the drugs; the affairs. She just wanted me gone. Then she said something, and she had slapped me...

Hard…

I dreamed I was running again, chasing Sheila through the house. I was angry now, and I wanted to get my hands on her. She had rejected me and laughed in my face. If I couldn’t have her, no one could.

She ran into the kitchen, hurrying toward the back door. She was going to make a dash across the yard and over to the neighbors. Brian Grimley lived next door. He was an ex-football player, three seasons with the Oakland Raiders. He was a big man and he hated me. If Sheila could only get to him…

I had to catch her…

I glanced in the sink as I hurried through the kitchen. There was a butcher knife lying in the dish drainer.

A big butcher knife…

I came awake with an awful gasp and a leering pain shooting across my face. I jerked my hand to my cheek, and once more, my fingers came away with blood. Something had scratched me again. It had walked right up to the hammock while I was sleeping and raked its claws right across my face.

I was bleeding.

Badly…

I got up out of the hammock and fumbled for the Colt. For a moment I thought it was gone, but then my fingers found the smooth barrel, and I knew I was okay. I grabbed the .45 out of the grass and looked around with huge frightened eyes. The sun was low in the west and those odd shadows had begun to creep across the yard. I searched the trees all around, staring at the darkness hovering along the edges of the yard.

There was nothing…

My fingers fumbled across my face, and I could feel the blood as it dripped down my chin. The scratches were long and deep, worse than before. What in the name of God? Slowly, I backed away from the hammock and turned toward the house. It was still there, dark and leering at the edge of the driveway, and I dreaded going inside. Still, there was nowhere else to go, and I needed to see how badly I was cut.

I hurried down the hall and into the bathroom, flipping lights along the way. I grabbed a wash-cloth and tossed it in the sink while my eyes tried to focus on the mirror. My face was pale and haggard, and there were deep lines around my eyes. The gray around my temples had expanded over the last few months, and that bald spot in the back of my head just kept getting bigger. However, those weren’t the things that worried me. Instead, my mind had zeroed in on those four ragged lesions etched across the side of my face. Something had clawed the shit out of me, and it was burning like hell.

I had to get out of here.

Better yet, I needed a drink…

There was a liquor store across town, just down the road from the local Kroger. I stopped by the grocery store first and grabbed a box of band-aids and Neosporin. The clerk stared at my lacerated face, but the cold look in my eyes made her hold her tongue. I paid for my stuff and dashed out to the car, where I did my best to doctor my face in the glow of the rear-view mirror.

I headed over to the liquor store and stocked up on the booze. I had been on the wagon for the past three weeks, and that is a hell of a long time if your name is Donald Davenport. I was already drinking by the time I got back to the house.

I had left the flood lights on, along with, just about every other light known to creation. The house looked like a UFO sitting in the front yard as I coasted to a stop at the edge of the driveway. I spent several minutes studying the front of the house. Those dark windows on the second floor obsessed me. I kept staring at them, doing my best to discern any movement behind that thick layer of dust. Something was stalking me, watching me and playing some rueful game. I tried to remember if Uncle Wag had ever said anything about the house being haunted, but I hadn’t spoken to Wag in years, and in truth, I couldn’t remember the last conversation we might have had.

With a tired sigh, I turned into the drive, and slugged another shot of Tequila as the car rolled to a stop. I lugged my liquor into the house, keeping the gun close at hand just in case. The house was quite; far too quiet as a matter of fact. I missed LA. I missed the traffic and the noise, the excitement and the money. Lafayette was a little too tame for my taste, and I knew in my heart that I was never going to be happy here.

I heard it as soon as I walked through the door. The footsteps…

They were back and louder than ever.

More definite…

More defined…

Someone was walking around upstairs, pacing back and forth in the narrow hall. The pacing stopped as soon as I stepped across the threshold. It was silent for a moment as if it were gauging my presence and then it started again, slow and deliberate like it wanted me to know it was there.

I’d had enough of this. I sat the tequila down and pulled the .45 from my pants. I didn’t even think about being quiet, I simply rushed over to the stairs and went bounding up to the second floor. Just as I got to the top, I caught a faint wisp of white as something darted into one of the empty rooms at the end of the hall. Something was in the house. There was no doubt about it this time.

My liquid courage seemed to evaporate on a dime, and in the blink of an eye I was stone-cold sober. I could hear a strange creaking coming from the end of the hall. It was steady and rhythmic, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. With a heavy sigh, I slowly started to move. The old boards creaked and rumbled as I made my way across the floor. The house seemed ominous in its silence. The only sound was that steady creaking coming from the end of the hall. I stood for several minutes and listened just outside the door. With a deep breath I shoved the heavy slab of wood open and stumbled into the room. I found myself standing in front of uncle Wag’s old rocking chair. It was the only piece of furniture on the second floor. I had left it there because something about it gave me the creeps. I’d had plans to refinish it, and put it on E-Bay, but those plans withered and died just as soon as I stepped into the room.

The old chair was rocking on its own, moving back and forth with slow deliberate motion and daring me to stop it. I stood there and watched while my heart raced and sweat poured down my back. For a moment, the chair actually stopped on its own and seemed to stare back at me, but when I didn’t move or speak, it slowly began to rock again with that same steady rhythm that gnawed at my sanity.

Slowly, I backed out of the room, pulling the door behind me as I left. I heard it latch in the empty air and the only sound was that awful creaking as I crept back down the hall. I had a hollow feeling in my gut as I made my way down the stairs. I wanted another drink. Hell, I wanted to be drunk, blind drunk, and without another thought, I dropped into my recliner and went to work on the problem.

I think I might have known the truth then and there. Otherwise, why didn’t I just get in the car and leave? They had hotels in Lafayette. I could have found a place to stay. I could have put the house on the market and sold it. I could have gotten something for it, but I didn’t do any of those things. Instead I just sat there, staring out the window and knocking back round after round of tequila while that ghastly rocking ripped at my ears, and those awful footsteps paced back and forth upstairs. When the tequila was finished, I pulled out my trusty bottle of Beam. When you really want to get plastered, there’s nothing like Jim Beam to get the job done. Trust me on this.

When I finally struggled to my feet several hours later, I was totally wasted, so much so that I could barely walk across the floor. My head was spinning and there was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was heading for the bedroom to lie down, but I didn’t make it. Instead, I tripped over a gallon of paint, and sent it smashing into the fireplace. The lid went flying and paint went everywhere. I caught myself cursing a little as I slumped to my knees. My legs turned to Jell-O and absolutely refused to work. I hit the floor hard. My head banged against the woodwork and my teeth rattled in my skull. The last thing I remember were the footsteps as the darkness closed in around me.

My head was killing me the next morning when I rolled over to face the day. The front door was standing open. I must have left it that way when I staggered home. My skull felt like a freight train had hit it. The room was spinning, and my stomach was doing handstands. My eyes faltered over to the fireplace were an awful mess of dried paint covered the masonry. It was all over the floor too, but the thing that really caught my eye were the footprints.

They were small and petite just like the ones I’d found in the dust at the top of the stairs. It looked as if someone had come down the hall making absolutely no attempt to by-pass the mess on the floor. They had walked right through the paint and stood over the spot where I was lying. They had turned then and wandered down the hall before petering out at my bedroom door.

It was then that the truth hit me square in the face. Maybe it had been there all along and I simply hadn’t been man enough to face it. Uncle Wag’s house wasn’t haunted. There were no ghosts banging away in the woodwork. Nothing dark and sinister lurked in the woods, or in those dusty rooms on the second floor. No, the house wasn’t haunted at all…

I was…

A faint vibrating caught my ear, and I turned to stare at my cell lying on the coffee table. I saw it move slightly on the polished surface but I didn’t answer. Somehow, I knew who was on the other end, and I didn’t want to talk to them, at least not yet.

After a moment the ringing stopped, and only then did I crawl across the floor to check my messages. There was only one, but I knew who it was before I even looked. Detective Richardson was calling this time. He was letting me know that they had finally had a break in my wife’s case. They had found Sheila’s shoes scattered in the shrubbery at our home on Brentwood Lane.

The lazy bastards… They should have found them days ago. What the hell had they been doing all this time?

Richardson also informed me that they had found some prints as well. They were fresh and the lab was running a comparison. There was a trace of anger in Richardson’s voice as he hung up the phone, but there was something else as well. I wasn’t sure what it was until I walked out on the front porch and stared at the morning sun. It was the sound of triumph I had heard in the Lieutenant’s voice. Richardson had broken the case. It was only a matter of time now.

Slowly, I staggered down the front steps to my car. My vision swam before my eyes, and I had to sit down on the bottom riser and put my head between my legs. I felt like I was about to pass out. Man, I had really tied one on last night. I’d only had a hangover like this once or twice in my life. The last time had been that Saturday night in Fresno.

The day after Sheila disappeared…

I really hadn’t lied to the police. I simply didn’t remember. I had just declared bankruptcy and my marriage had ended only a few weeks before. I was broke, humiliated and I had only wanted to talk to her. Things had just gotten out of hand.

I slowly struggled over to my old Taurus, and with some effort, I finally managed to find the keys stuffed in my jeans. I popped the trunk and stared at the thing lying there before me. Maybe I had known it was there all along. Maybe I had just chosen to forget because the truth was simply too hard to face.

My trembling fingers reached out and wrapped around the butcher knife. It was still red with Sheila’s blood…

Maybe I should have run. That would have been the smart thing to do. After all, it was an accident. Hell, I didn’t even remember what had happened. It had come to me that day in the hammock in that awful dream that had rocked me from my sleep.

I could have run. I should have run. But Don Davenport had been making a lot of mistakes lately, and something deep inside told me that it was time to face the music. It also told me that those footsteps were never going to stop. They were going to follow me wherever I went, and in the end, they would take my sanity from me. No, I had run enough. It was time to face the truth.

I never bothered locking the doors. I never even went back inside. It really didn’t matter what happened to the house. I knew I would never see it again, and part of me was happy in that knowledge. I never liked the place anyway. It was time to go back home, back to LA. I drove, believe it or not. I didn’t think I could stand to fly; I didn’t think my stomach would take it. Besides I needed the time to think and remember…

Sheila had ran from me that night. She had bolted through the house to the backdoor and I knew I had to stop her before she got outside. I was drunk. I had been drinking all afternoon, and its miracle that I hadn’t wrecked on that long drive from Fresno.

Why in the hell didn’t she change the locks? That would have been the smart thing to do, but the security code had been the same, and all I had to do was punch in and rumble down the driveway to the front door. I had forced my way inside. Sheila had tried to stop me, struggling against the door and screaming her head off as I pushed my way through.

I only wanted to talk, but she wouldn’t listen. I had screamed and cried and tried to beg, but Sheila had gotten nasty and said things. What things I don’t recall, but at some point, she had kneed me in the groin and started to run. I had chased after her, through the dining room and into the kitchen. The knife had been waiting for me, and without a second thought, I picked it up.

Sheila was actually out on the back porch when I finally caught her. She had been out clubbing the night before and had just gotten home. She was wearing that short black skirt that I loved so much, and her legs looked good enough to eat. She had opened her mouth to scream and that was when it happened. I don’t know why I did it. I loved her. I really did. But, somehow, the knife seemed to take on a life of its own and I had brought it down in a wide swath right though Sheila’s throat.

Her haggard scream was cut short and a fountain of blood came spewing from her neck. I stood there and held her as the light slowly faded from her eyes, and that cold, shocked expression on her face was burned into my mind. She toppled from my grasp and fell into the shrubs at the corner of the house. I stood there with my arm out while my mind tried to register what had just happened. Then it started to rain. The forecast was calling for heavy storms for the next two days, and I was grateful. I knew it would wash away most of the evidence. Besides, Sheila’s body had fallen onto the parched ground, and most of the blood had already soaked into the earth. Her eyes were still open when I drug her from the bushes. She was staring up at me with a cold accusing gaze, and I had to look away, or I knew I would start to cry.

I cried anyway.

I cried as I wrapped her body in the old canvass tarp that I found in the shed, and I cried some more as I tossed her lifeless body in the trunk. I stood there for a long time while the rain poured down around me, and I cried those same bitter tears that I was crying now.

I had killed her…

God in heaven help me…

I drove all night and far into the next day. It’s a hell of a hike from Tennessee to California but, the whole thing seemed to fly by in a flash. I didn’t stop unless I had to, just once or twice to use the bathroom and stretch my legs. At one of the rest stops I puked into a trash can, coughing up all that expensive tequila from the night before. I didn’t hang around. I didn’t stop to eat. I grabbed a coke from the vending machines and kept right on driving.

The Johnson Hills Development had been one of my last projects. It had barely been under way when all the shit had hit the fan and my finances took a nose dive. I had pulled out of the project, deciding to deal with my creditors and try to save what was left of my business. The massive track of land on the Resita Highway had remained vacant and empty ever since. The scrub pines and the desert grass were slowly reclaiming it. Most people were saying that the project would never be completed, not for a long time anyway. I had read all of those reports in the newspapers, so I knew that the land was still deserted. I also knew that there was an old mine-shaft on the property; the perfect place to hide a body.

I left Sheila there, in that cold, barren place. I had driven through the front gate. Believe it or not; I still had a key. I had backed the Taurus right up to the edge of the shaft and pulled the thin sheet of plywood away from the opening. I had tossed her down, deep into that yawning darkness and I started to cry again when I heard her body hit the bottom.

I loved her…

I really did…

I turned myself in to the police that evening at Precinct 23 on Cobblestone Boulevard. Detective Richardson was about to go home for the day, but he put those plans on hold as soon as he saw me. They put me in one of those little rooms like you see on TV. That was where I made my confession. They’d been looking for me, you see. A warrant had been issued for my arrest that morning, and a massive manhunt was already underway. There had been blood all over Sheila’s shoes and a thumbprint had been found on the kitchen counter. It was the only time I had gotten sloppy, but in the back of my mind, I think I meant to do it.

It wasn’t until they were cuffing me and getting ready to take me to a cell that I mentioned the footsteps. The damned things were everywhere and I was wondering how in the hell Richardson and Grimes could hear themselves think. It had started several days ago when I first crossed the bridge at Memphis, and I had heard them ever since. A slow pounding rhythm beating against the floor, the same tiny, rushing steps Sheila had made when she ran from me that night.

Couldn’t they hear the damned things?

Why were they looking at me like that?

It was loud as hell and I practically had to scream over the noise. I couldn’t take it anymore! I had done the right thing! I had confessed, damn it! I had told them where to find the body! So, make the damn things stop! I wanted to go to sleep and I couldn’t! Hell, I could barely hear myself think!

Make them stop!!!

MAKE THEM STOP!!!

Richardson was on the phone calling for backup while Grimes tried to wrestle me to the floor. I wasn’t trying to resist. I wasn’t trying to fight. I was resigned to my fate. I had confessed hadn’t I? The door to the room burst open and two more officers appeared. They had me on the ground with cuffs around my wrist and they were doing everything in their power to hold me down, but I could still hear those damned footsteps. They were raging up and down the hall and rolling through my head, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. Richardson had me by the back of the head and he was pushing my face to the floor. I didn’t even realize that I had started to scream.

They put me in a room in a nice place in Sacramento. They told me I could have visitors but no one ever came. They wanted me to talk about it. They wanted me to tell them about the footsteps, but the damned things were everywhere, and I knew they were lying when they said they couldn’t hear them. So, I wouldn’t talk. I wouldn’t tell them anything. Instead, I just sat there and screamed. The doctors looked at me and shook their heads, and then they took me away. They finally stopped coming to see me. Someone said I was hopeless, and they let me be.

Let me be…

They keep me in my room now. I’m here almost all the time. They keep me tied to the bed, and they give me a lot of shots. I hate shots. They hurt.

I hate the footsteps too.

I hate them worst of all.

They keep me awake at night, and they are always here.

They come out at night when those long dark shadows come slithering into the room.

Those times are the worst… The time when the footsteps…

Come out to play…