Bump In The Night
Story by Megan Foster | Design by Maddy Larson | Photos by Dylan Hanson
A soft breeze, a chill down your spine and the hair on your arms stands up. “Boo!”
Oh, don't be scared! You haven’t even read our ghost stories yet…
In honor of the spooky season, here are some startling stories to help you reach your scare quota for the year.
Through the Cemetery
The air was crisp as I walked home that night. The fog rolled around my ankles as I followed the narrow path. “Crunch, crunch, crunch,” cried the fallen leaves breaking under my feet.
I stopped in front of the old, creaky gate, its posts rusted and askew. I knew where I was, I had been here plenty of times prior. Cutting through the cemetery was so much faster than taking the normal route, but I had never come this late.
The hills laid quiet– only the occasional roar of the wind through the branches tinged the silence. Four crows cawed on the pillars of the exterior gate, still as statues atop their post.
As I approached, the crows grew louder, seemingly stressed by my presence growing closer. I just had to get through the gate, then home was merely minutes away.
As I drew in, the crows leapt off their perch into the air before circling the area above, loudly cawing a longing tone. The gate laid right ahead, squeaking slightly as it bobs against the lock.
I reached out to open the gate, but the usually loud and creaky door didn’t budge more than an inch. The crows sing out menacingly, almost like laughter at my demise. This had never happened before. The gate was never locked.
I turned around to go back the way I came, but the once-visible path had been overtaken by darkness. I could hardly see two feet in front of me. I slowly followed the path when I was interrupted by the overwhelming sense that I was being watched.
I kept my eyes in front of me, reluctant to scan the area out of fear I’d see a set of eyes looking back at me. The wind sounded cluttered with whispers, the voices of the night broke through to my ears.
A cold, sharp breeze whistles past. It stopped me in my tracks. The breeze brushed over my body, from my feet to my head rather than through me as I moved. As the cold reached my face, I felt the brush of a hand on my cheek: I was not alone.
My heart started to race, my body full of fear, but unable to make a noise. My feet felt rooted in the earth, like the soles of my shoes were embedded in the ground. I could not move.
I heard a sound in the distance, coming from the far locked gate I had left. “Clang, clang,” like something being dragged across the fence, “clang,” the sound grew louder. I mustered up the courage to turn back, but the only thing I could see in the distance was the faint glow of the streetlights from the neighborhood over.
I had to keep moving. Near the start of the trail, I noticed a faint glow from the brush, quickly moving from one side to the next. Two little lights pop up, just to duck back into the night. I kept moving until I looked ahead and realized those little lights were eyes. The eyes were watching me.
I heard the snap of a branch in front of me before the ice cold breeze I felt before. This time it grabbed my hand and pulled me back, away from the eyes in front of me.
I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I wasn’t making it back the way I came. I picked up my feet and ran for the gate. Locked or not, I was getting over it.
I skidded to a stop to see that the once locked gate was now unlocked and open. No one was around. The only proof I wasn’t alone were the two small footprints in front of me and the pink bow tied on the lock of the gate.
I grabbed the bow and made my way through the gate, finally within realistic reach of home. I walked under the glow of the streetlights, admiring this little pink bow while the crackle of the power lines above me filled the silence.
Through the gate, past the store and down the street: home. The last streetlight flickered once before going out. “Clang” rang out in front of me. In the flash of the dying streetlight, I saw it: a small and worn doll perched atop the steps leading to my front door.
I climbed the steps, picked up the doll and noticed a familiar looking bow; a bow just like the one I'd seen on the gate, the one I was holding in my hand. Enough had happened that night. I figured I could dismiss this weird circumstance to the younger kids next door.
I opened the front door, turned around and peered back once more to catch the flicker of the streetlight before closing out the night. I hung up my purse and keys before walking down the hall and into the kitchen. I opened a cabinet, grabbed a glass and made my way to the sink; I turned on the faucet, took a swig and looked out the back window into the yard.
In the backyard, there was a swing set, one that had been there since my youth. In the dead of this night, it swung. The seat swung high and fast, steady and straight like someone was propelling themselves up higher and higher. Beneath the swing were little footprints, the same little footprints from the cemetery.
I swung open the back door and stared. I didn’t understand and I couldn’t explain. My eyes fought to blink away the sight of “Want to play?” etched into the dirt by my door.
Haunted HIghway
The speedometer read 50 mph, windows down, radio on and the sunset in the distance. It was finally Friday, the start of the weekend.
The clock says 7 p.m. and it’s nearly dark already. The sky is clear and the moon is full. The road glistens, lit by the headlights and damp from the morning's rain.
The radio catches some interference, sending sharp static through the car. Suddenly, the dial on the radio starts to turn, the stations trailing down until the screen lights up with three zeros before a soft voice comes through.
“Hello?” Crackles over the radio. “Can you hear me?” The voice comes through once more. Fear bubbles inside me, the steering wheel shakes beneath the tightness of my fingers piercing the leather.
The car drags to the side of the road, silence fills the cab. The moon glistens, everything below stands still; I felt as if I was waiting for something, anything that may explain what just happened. Slowly reaching up to grab the dial, the voice comes through again, “I can see your car, why did you stop?”
The highway was clear, a narrow strip of ten miles placed between acres of farmland. I couldn't answer the question, the thought stuck in my mind: why did I stop? Rattled and sunken into the driver's seat, I stared out into the darkness, frozen and waiting for something to emerge.
“Can you see me?” ,the voice bellows. I flick on the high beams, hoping that if there's something in the distance, I may be able to see it. The light reflects on something in the street. Right down the middle of the lanes, a metal looking object shines glaringly through the window.
Every part of my brain is telling me to throw the car into drive and speed home, but my body feels propelled to the road. The car door opens, menacing laughs can be heard in the distance. 20 feet ahead of me I see it, a gold locket with the initials “M.A.S.” etched across the front; those are my initials.
I feel propelled forward, my body compelled to this object. I grab it, turn around and head back to the car. The keys are still in the ignition, the radio still on with the glow of three zeroes across the dash.
I place the car in drive, now ready to move forward after some seemingly delusional delay. The radio chirps “Open it.” The voice comes through clearer than before. I put the car in park.
The locket consists of a braided gold chain, adorned with an oval monogrammed pendant that opens from the side. The pendant between my index finger and thumb, the chain strewn over my palm; why does this feel so familiar?
I slowly open the clasp; inside there's space for two photos, both of which contain a photo of me. “Do you understand?” The voice comes through, closer than before now.
“No!” I shout, “I don’t understand.” The locket lies in my trembling hands. I stare at it, noticing now what I didn't before. I flip over the locket and see “J” etched into the pendant in a large, shaky font.
The picture on the right is me, probably 7-years-old, standing beside my grandparents' old barn. The picture on the left is the same, almost. Behind me a figure stands, a figure familiar to me.
I had chalked up these memories to the colorful imagination you possess in adolescence, often told my creativity got ahead of me in my youth. Often a child may have an imaginary friend, one they grow out of as they age; for me, the friend I had lingered.
She lived in the old barn, the same age and height as me; I called her Jane. Jane would visit me often. I pleaded with my family to see, but it was always the same: “You have such a colorful imagination!”
As I’ve gotten older, she became a mere memory; a faint milestone from the past. It was easier to dismiss it as childhood creativity, but I knew as a child that Jane was so much more. The old barn was torn down and the property sold when I got into middle school.
“You forgot about me,” Jane says in a full-bodied voice. “You left me behind and now you can't do that again.”
I put the car in drive, swerved back into the lane and drove home in silence. My body was cold and rigid.
I threw the car in park, stumbled up the drive and through the door. My body trembling– this night feels like a weird dream. I walk into the bathroom, flick on the lamp and drag myself to the sink.
I turn on the faucet, splash my face and look up to the mirror; the locket is around my neck, and behind me in the shadow cast from the lampshade, a small figure stands.
Jane.
