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West Arbor Road

Weekly Horror - 1

By A. RobertsPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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I've always had an affinity for horror but I don't believe everything I hear. Neither should you. Your worst fears are just stories that your mind tells itself, it’s all part of normal human anxiety. Our emotions and memories become entwined when they live in our subconscious for long enough, and that’s why they’re so hard to shake.

I do have a memory like this. Some of the details are as crisp as a photograph while others are vague, as if I’m seeing it through a dirty glass. Despite this, I can’t seem to pinpoint where reality diverges. I can’t tell what I’m vividly remembering and what I’m conjuring from that place of fear. Though, if I am conjuring, it is in a detailed manner. At this point, I'm nearly positive that I've invented a memory just to scare myself when I’m trying to sleep. That’s normal, right? Maybe we all have one of those.

Well, mine is from when I was very young. I was around the age of seven back when I had an after-school friend named Amelia. I don't remember any last names, but I do remember that she used to live on West Arbor Road in a small, ranch house. Hot afternoons were spent in her overgrown yard that faced the city street. In the summer, a mirage would dance in the air and cars would speed through it, becoming distorted themselves. Across the street there was a bus stop, so city Greyhounds would squeal to a halt and then drudge off in an emission of thick exhaust. One of our routine activities was hiding on the side of Amelia’s house and spying on the various groups of people who gathered at the bus stop.

Once, we were crouched in the tall weeds as the last busload of people was carried off for the day. When the bus was gone, Amelia reached up to her bedroom window that was just above our heads and she told me to listen.

Then, she knocked on the glass. She knocked twice, paused, and then knocked three times. After this, she looked at me and asked if I had ever heard that sound before. When I asked what she meant, she said that she kept hearing that noise at night. She said sometimes it came from the window, sometimes it came from the roof. Once, she heard it on her bedroom door.

I asked what it was but she didn't know. Her parents didn't know, either. They had never heard it. I reached up and copied the sound with my own hand and Amelia decided that she didn’t want to be outside any longer. In fact, we spent the rest of the day inside and any little noise made her jump. That same day, I was going home early to pack for summer camp and Amelia was devastated that I was leaving her alone for a week. When my mom came to the door to pick me up, Amelia said goodbye but her hand was still clutching my arm very deeply until my mom made her let go.

I never saw Amelia again.

Her parents put her to bed and in the morning she was gone. Her window was locked and closed, as were all the doors in the house. They never found any sign of her.

I’ve looked up people I used to know, hoping they’d have some connection to Amelia’s family—hoping that I might recognize one of their faces. So far, I haven’t been able to find anyone. I took a walk by the house the other night. The light was on. There was still clutter in the driveway and weeds in the yard. I left because it just felt...weird over there.

It might seem a little obsessive, but it’s just bothering me. That’s all. The tapping sound in my room last night was just so familiar.

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About the Creator

A. Roberts

A. Roberts is often found on twitter.

https://twitter.com/arobertswriter

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