Best Date Ever - K.L. Kramarich
977 Words
Unknown POV
The rain splattered over the windshield obscuring the view. My wipers refusing to work. The road from the high school's annual Halloween Dance became difficult to travel. But it wasn't only the rain making things difficult.
My date for the dance isn't really “a date”. She's my best friend since kindergarten. But as of late, we have been acting more like enemies than friends. Over a stupid misunderstanding.
She should know better than to believe everyone at school. Her family's sketchy history means nothing to me. We left the dance after an hour. It wasn't fun, especially when your lifelong friend is mad at you. She looked cute wearing my lettered jacket. Neither one of us wanted to attend this activity, but our families pushed us into going because we make the perfect couple.
The pouring rain had made the forest creatures scurry to and fro to find shelter.
Lightning flashed in the distance illuminating the almost barren-looking trees and a small red fox found itself in the middle of the road whose eyes glowed in the headlight beam.
“Look out!” my date screamed. I swerved my jalopy out of the animal's path, hitting a pothole, which blew out the tire and bent the rim, causing us to hydroplane on the water run-off on the road. Trying to get my jalopy under control, I jerked the steering wheel too hard sending us straight into a tree trunk. The front of the car rippled like an accordion.
My date's head hit the dashboard while mine slammed into the steering wheel. I winced, feeling the split skin on my forehead, blinking through the blood oozing into my eyes when I looked at my companion, noticing she had a similar injury.
Best date ever.
For endless seconds we sat in uncomfortable silence. The only noise came from the wipers which continued to swish along with the annoying orange flash of the hazard lights illuminating our faces in the darkened cab.
“Em, you okay?” I asked her, worry weighing my words. While rubbing the back of my neck, more so out of nervous habit, but also because now it was sore. I muttered once more, “Em.” No answer. With blood streaking down her pale face, matting into her once styled
strawberry-blonde hair, worry flooded my gut. “Emma Louise,” I shouted, gently shaking her.
Finally, her eyes fluttered opened. “You promised you'd never call me that,” her voice was more air than words. She smacked my hand away from her shoulders; however, she did give my hand a small squeeze. Her eyes suddenly widened, her lips quivering, while slowly raising her pointed finger.
My eyes dart in its direction.
Outside the driver's window stood a gnarly-looking old man. Protruding cheekbones emphasized a sunken face of wrinkles upon wrinkles of blanched grey skin, while the rainy downpour plastered thin strands of stringy hair on the top of his balding head. His mouth hung off-set, inviting saliva to drip down the sides of his mouth. Disgusting. In his bony fingers, he clutched an umbrella, appearing just as outdated as his clothing. All of this...Odd.
But it was the crazed-look his eyes held that caused me to jump in my seat.
“You might want to get those cuts tended to,” the creepy old guy rasped. After a sharp coughing fit, he said hoarsely, “Follow me and we'll see to them.” He didn't suggest this time. It was more of a demand.
I turn to get Emma's reaction, but her seat is empty. Her door was still closed. How? I search my vehicle frantically for her. The creepy old guy rapped the window with his bony finger. With my next breath, my entire body suddenly felt cold. Reluctantly, I open my door to follow him.
Walking in silence, we hike up a hidden dirt path, which opens up to the notorious, mysterious Bancroft Manor. Some say the Bancroft's founded our town, and became filthy rich in the process. But rumor has it that someone cursed their family on Halloween night and every Halloween night. The following year in 1929, they lost all their money in the Stock Market Crash. The old house reflected their history, the opulence of the building giving away to years of neglect. Peeling paint, broken stones along the walkway, cracks and holes in the walls. The howling wind from the storm sent shivers through the lonely house, causing it to moan.
To the left of the property sits a small family cemetery where a lonely figure stands overlooking two graves.
I immediately recognize the figure...it's Emma, still wearing my lettered jacket. Out of instinct, I go to her, numb to the pelting rain beating down. Trees nearly as old as the manor hang their branches over the rows of graves.
Upon reaching the graves, I glance at the weathered, worn tombstones she is staring at. I gasp, noticing the names etched on the stone revealing the occupants buried six feet beneath me…
EMMA LOUISE BANCROFT b. March 16, 1940 – d. October 31, 1957
RONALD “RON” M. PRESCOTT b. September 13, 1939 – d. October 31, 1957
She reaches out to me with her bony hand to hold. She looks at me with pleading forgiving eyes from her skullish face. Taking her hand in my own bony one, I give her an understanding nod as we take our places, fading into the night.
“Every year...,” the original Bancroft muttered as he walked himself back into his sealed mausoleum---the last reminder of the affluence to stand, guarding the plots. His weather battered umbrella sat outside the entrance.
Written by K.L. Kramarich
kramarich93.stary (on dreame)
Dreame book;
Alpha Micah Black: Werewolf Detective
F.B.K Group:
Wolfdale City Mysteries & Other Stories
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