image used courtesy of the Geek Philosopher Website -
That Old House
by Shelia Cassidy
I stood there with my tool bag staring at the house. It looked like something from Halloween. Steve looked at me.
I've got a bad feeling about this, I muttered.
Wuss, Steve replied.
The house was about 150 years old. We could hear the stairs creak as we went upstairs. Steve brushed the cobwebs aside as we entered one of the bedrooms and spread our sleeping bags. He set the travel alarm and we crawled in for the night.
My eyes had just closed when I heard the sound of a foot dragging. Steve heard it too.
Maybe its prowlers he whispered.
Yeah, right, I hissed.
The foot dragging got nearer and stopped just outside. Steve inched out his right hand, grabbed the large three cell flashlight, eased out of his sleeping bag, and crouched down low creeping towards the door. The doorknob started to turn. Steve yelled out, flung back the door, and then froze. Standing there was a white apparition dressed in a tattered Confederate uniform. At least I think that's what it was it's hard to tell, but I did notice a CS belt buckle just before I screamed.
Steve and I flew down the stairs, out the front door, and into the car. We spent the night at a local motel. When we asked about the house, the clerk laughed.
Oh you mean the old Bolton place, where some Reb got shot by Union raiders. You mean some fools actually bought it?