Whispering Willow was perfectly peaceful the night of the haunting. The antiquated avenue was dark and silent, except for the weeping willows that lined the street, whispering quietly in the soft breeze and waving morosely to anyone who walked down the street, giving the street its name. The pavement was cracked and full of potholes; the houses, mostly vacant, in a state of disrepair. The only house in the whole neighborhood that did not look completely abandoned was Old Lady Jenkins's house. The locals claimed she was a witch; nobody else argued after seeing her in person.
Roberto was on a mission that night. He had been hanging out at the skate park when some new guy had challenged his true bad boy character. In order to retain his street cred, he decided to break into the witch's house. As he walked down the street, the full spookiness of the situation set upon him heavily and hindered his footsteps, begging him to turn back. The eerily yellow moon was full and huge in the sky; a dog or wolf howled in the distance. A wisp of cloud coated the sky, giving the night a smoky shroud. More than once, he could have sworn he heard footsteps behind him. But, he determined, it was probably his imagination playing tricks on him.
The willows waggled forbidding fingers at him. "Turn back," they murmured ominously as the wind spurred them on. "It's only a dare. Don't let the witch get you."
Roberto gritted his teeth. "I have to do this," he thought, resisting the urge to answer the trees.
He had arrived at the house. The windows were all darkened, with more than a few cobwebs clinging to the corners. The door looked crooked in its frame, hanging haphazardly off its ancient rusted hinges. That shouldn't be too hard to get through, Roberto thought. Just by sliding a penknife between the door and its frame, the latch gave and the door slowly creaked open.
The whole place smelled of moth balls and beans. Every single floorboard groaned unnecessarily loudly when stepped on. The only illumination was the sliver of yellow moonlight that managed to sneak in after him. Roberto was exceedingly grateful for it. But then--a violent breeze swept from within the house, slamming the complaining door shut. Roberto's blood congealed into icicles. His heart began to beat as if it were performing a drum solo at a rock concert. He clenched the door handle, willing himself not to run. It appeared pitch black for a moment, but then Roberto's eyes adjusted and he could vaguely view nearby objects within the musky darkness.
Brass candlesticks laden with cobwebs adorned every scratched mahogany table. An appalling floral couch sat in the center of the room, and faded matching floral rugs laid at their feet. Something brushed Roberto's face. He flailed wildly and scampered for the door. But he stopped, hand resting fleetingly on the handle. "No," he said out loud in a firm voice. "You can do this."
Then he heard it. A grating, scratchy voice, like a tape recorder possessed by a demon, echoed throughout the mansion. "No, you can do this. No, you can do this. No, you can do this."
Roberto began to sweat. Fear clamped around his heart. There was definitely something else in here. Something--from another world. The spirit world? The Underworld? Roberto didn't want to find out.
I'll just get what I came for and leave, he thought, careful not to speak anything. His "friends" had charged him with fetching one of Old Lady Jenkins's teacups, which she always left out on the porch on sultry summer days to attract flies and other insects for whatever evil purpose she had devised.
Roberto felt his way through the house to what he presumed was the kitchen. He searched several putrid cabinets filled with moldy bread and stale cookie crumbs until he found the china cabinet. Inside was an array of teapots, cups and saucers, all adorned with the same horrid floral pattern that scarred the sofa in the front room. Roberto grabbed a teacup, and as soon as he did, a wailing, plaintive sob arose from the depths of the house, rattling it down to its foundation. "GET OUT!" the house shrieked, and Roberto obeyed without a second thought, skittering out of the threshold of the awful mansion as fast as his terrified, adrenaline-charged feet would take him.
Roberto was a mile away from the house before he felt safe, or before he even noticed he was exhausted. Looking at his still-clenched fist, he noticed a teacup dangling from it. A wave of pleasure engulfed him. He had almost had his soul eaten by Old Lady Jenkins, but he got the teacup. Lifting it up to his eyes, he peered in.
There, laying inside the bowels of the teacup as innocently as a teabag, was a single human finger. Around it was dried blood, holding it in like a fly trapped in amber. Roberto flung the teacup as far away as he could. It soared a hundred feet and then shattered against a weeping willow. Roberto ran again, sobbing as he did so. He had never experienced this much horror in one night. He would go straight. He would not hang out with all the bad kids at the skate park. He would never invade someone else's private property again, especially on a dare. Roberto was a changed boy. He was a changed boy.
Old Lady Jenkins, the witch of Whispering Willow, unplugged the high-efficiency fan. It was perfectly positioned, aligned with her front door in such a way that the neighbors wondered why she would waste all that perfectly good air on the outdoors. All it would ever do was blow shut the front door.
She hobbled over to the innocuous candlestick, resting benignly on the table. The reached over and plucked the tape recorder out of its waxy case. The candle, relieved of its burden, sagged onto the table. "A job well done," she cackled, and the recorder merrily repeated her in its raspy, distorted voice.
The wicked witch then turned off the horror movie, which had been playing a haunted house scene full blast for a short while. Her work finished, she went to go get a snack. Opening the refrigerator, she flinched when she saw a severed human hand in it. Sometimes her own baking prowess scared even her. She took a big bite of the pinkie finger. She tasted a salty pretzel center with a yogurt confection covering.
"Delicious!" she squealed. To enhance its flavor, she dipped it in the ketchup bowl sitting right next to where the hand was refrigerating.
"A job well done," Old Lady Jenkins chirped.
"A job well done. A job well done. A job well done," roared the tape recorder.
