A Deadly Runaway

My eyes water; my head spins. I’m not supposed to be in the attic, but that is what inspired me to come. “Don’t go back …” a whisper arises. “The stairs will swallow you whole …” I feel it is true. Though the voices in my head usually conduct experiments on me. 

“Cam?” calls a voice from below the stairs. My mother. “Cam? You know I won't let you up here. Are you …” Her voice fades. I duck behind three large moving boxes and stay crouched.

“Don’t go back …” the eerie sounds continue. Different words this time: “Even for your mother … through the window … through the window.”

“Shut up,” I beg in a whisper-voice. “Please. Shut up.” Slowly, the handle turns and the attic door opens. A figure, resembling a human, carefully appears in the doorway. It’s either my mother or a demon.

Don’t move, I think. I reimagine the voices: “Through the window … through the window …” 

Opening the window and pulling my left leg through, I begin whispering the creature’s voices to myself. Only for your … even for your … the stairs will … through the … don’t go … My mother is still up there with me. Were the voices trying to help me? Perhaps they didn’t even exist. Think logically.

I stick my head through the pane of the window, hoping to death that my mother doesn’t see me. To climb down two stories is easier said than done. 

“No …” comes the voice. “Jump down … she’ll never know … hurry …” It is really speaking to me. Words; words; words. Can my mother even hear them? Are they really real? Am I just trying to convince myself to die?

I listen. No more voices. I let go and fall headfirst into a large, trimmed bush. Deciding I’m still alive, I pull twigs from my hair and dart down the street into a cloud of foggy darkness. Come now, you’re so close.

A house appears on the left; the only house in sight. It’s a black, rust-wooden one with smaller portraits of evil. I enter solemnly, hoping to give the spirits an inside view of me. Voices arise from the top of the stairs —sounding like yelling— and the shock that I feel from them makes me jump and I end up beside a mirror. My mind goes blank as I happen across my own reflection. The new piercing in my nose and torn clothing has set me away from the life I once owned. I don’t own it anymore.

As I just begin to worry about the eeriness taking over my appearance, the voices stop, and there is a loud stomping on the creaky stairs. In my hope of safe curiosity, I allow my eyes to travel more than ten feet in front of me and notice the shadow emerging from the top of the stairs and making its way down to the bottom.

There, just of whom I would expect from a house such as this, a brunette teenager with a silver piercing peeking out from her nostril and a black, knee-high dress over her body walks into the main room. Following her is a skinny woman wearing a tighter gown and layered silver necklaces. The sight of the evil-looking figures forces me further into my hiding place.

The emaciated woman turns around on her heel and begins sniffing, as if she were a dog retrieving its bone. She narrows her eyes, which become as slender as she is skeletal. I gulp and sink in so far my butt sticks out behind a close vanity; the only item in the entire house, I guess, that is not a deep shade of gray or black. 

“I sense a visitor,” calls the older woman rather loudly in a singsong voice. As old as the house is, the echo rumbles and a streak of brown hair lands on my shoulder.

“Calm down, Mother,” the teenaged girl hisses, glancing at my horrified eyes. She seems to notice me … but how? And why not take advantage of it? “I’m sure everything is … fine.” She speaks evenly and hints of arrogance displays in every word. The girl’s mother lets out a “hmph” sound and follows her daughter in a straight line towards a different room. As they exit, I find it safe to leave my hiding place.

I dart upstairs and wind up in an intersecting hallway with mist on either side. Behind me, there is a pounding on the stairs.

“Camila …” it yells. The sound lunges at me; chokes me. “Hurry down …” I see no mercy in the piercing yell. I dart towards the left, making out a crooked image of a door at the end of the hallway. Like the house itself, it is the only door in sight. I enter it, sliding on my back as it closes behind me. Struggling to get up, my right hand holds my front half upward while my left locks the door behind me. I get up on my feet and nearly cheer at my victory. I am interrupted.

“I thought …” I choke out loud, my voice cracking at my fear. In front of me stands a pale teenage girl, the same one that I saw not long ago. But the face is so familiar …

The girl’s piercing gleams in the moonlight, her gown sitting on her legs plainly. Directly behind her, a mirror reflected her back. I aim myself diagonally at it and see Camila Richburg, but my face looks awfully familiar. How could I seem familiar if I am myself? Who do I see in the mirror?

“What’s your name?” I demand, realizing whoever is standing before me looks exactly the same. This is not supposed to be a paranormal experience, this is supposed to be a runaway from my own life. But now my runaway has transformed into a sightseeing of my present existence. The girl keeps staring at me with a seemingly blank mind.

“What’s your name!” I yell again, louder now, demanding something completely different than my last question to myself.  “Tell me!”

It pauses before replying: “You tell me.” The words come out hissed and still, like earlier, even. What does she intend to tell me?

“Tell me your name before I murder you!”

Nothing happens. I gradually inform myself I don’t have a weapon on me and calm down a bit. Though, to me, it is difficult to calm down when I am locked into the eyes of my reflection without looking into a mirror. There are two versions of myself, it seems like, and the one in front of me is not the good one.

She laughs, as if trying to confuse and frighten me. The hysterical giggles force me to my knees. I am now weak; and I can’t do anything about it. The mist begins to mold into the doorway and sits above me in a foggy mess. I can make out the girl’s face in the mess for a few seconds before it disappears into it. No matter how hard I look, she is not there.

Because of her denial to my presence, I can stand up once again. As soon as I am on my feet, I bolt out the doorway. The mist outside is gone, it lingers in the room I had been in. I cough from the remains of the smoky fog and run down the spinning stairwell so fast I nearly trip over my own shoes.

As I arrive downstairs, the girl stands in front of me again. She laughs more for a few seconds before lunging towards me into a ghostly shadow and screams my name—her name, too—into the thick cloud as she disappears. Recovering from the fright, I shove my shoulder into the door and pant down the street faster than I ever have.

Soon I see the faint images of my neighborhood in the distance. Though my mother is strict, it doesn’t seem so displeasing anymore; considering the story I had just created. As far as stimulating experiences goes, the last I would want to face was my own recreation in its ghastly truth.