Tuesday, April 25, 2017

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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