Drive - A Memoir 101st Installment
to
build than see it now with only our imaginations to fill in what had
happened to the visitor. We sat on the floor in a corner of the room
to discuss what we thought had happened and to decide if we were
going to reset the traps again. After some conversation about ways to
scare people and reminiscing about things that scared us in the past,
we started getting a little jumpy. For some reason our attention was
drawn to the other side of the room. Maybe it was a noise, although
we didn’t hear anything or maybe a movement but there didn’t seem
to be anything moving, or maybe just our nerves. All three of us were
looking that way when a large gallon can started rolling towards us.
We
freaked out! Someone squealed like a girl as we instantly jumped to
our feet. The can just kept picking up speed like it was attacking.
My heart was pounding, Russell’s eyes were wide, and Wade wasn’t
laughing. In fact, he looked like he was having an asthma attack. I
leaped over the can before it could assault me and bolted out the
front door with Russell pounding out right behind me.
“Where’s
Wade!” Russell screamed. We slammed to a stop looking back and saw
nothing.
“It
killed him,” I wailed. Then from the back of the shack came Wade,
his face as white as the ghost we thought we’d just seen, except
for blood running down his cheek from a cut on his forehead. He
didn’t stop for us, just kept running. We immediately dashed after
Wade and ran for almost all of the two miles to our house. When the
adrenalin overload finally diminished, we slowed to a walk. We didn’t
talk for a while.
“You’re
bleeding. Are you hurt? What did that thing do to you?” I asked
Wade.
“I
just dove through the boarded up window in the back and the boards
broke,” he said as he put his hand to his face, pulled it back and
looked at his bloody palm and fingers. “Ow, it hurts now that I see
this blood. Is it bad?” We stopped and Russ and I looked closely.
“Pretty
bad, the cut will probably leave a scar.” Russ diagnosed.
That’s
great, a scar! I thought. Boys love scars! The scar gives a story
credibility. I liked scars. However, Wade didn’t like it. He
must’ve been worrying about his looks or his mother wrath, we
didn’t know which. We speculated on what could have caused the can
to roll, and Russ and Wade decided that maybe it had been a ground
squirrel or a rat running inside the can like a hamster in an
exercise wheel.
“Balderdash,
it wasn’t natural. It was supernatural!” I retorted. “It
must’ve been the ghost of the owner that built the shack.” I was
sure of it. We never went back to the shack again, but
500 more words tomorrow
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