Black Eyes

Coquitlam Public Library Scary Story Contest, sponsored by the Tri-City News - First place in the 15 to 18 year old category
http://www.bclocalnews.com/tri_city_maple_ridge/tricitynews/community/33268784.html

"Black Eyes"

By Isabella Bender

With one hand on the yellowed brass knob and another on the rough wooden frame, I hurled into the door.
To my dismay, it opened.
I glanced back to where my friends waited impatiently on the old farm road. A dare was a dare and I had to make it to the attic.
After a small, shaky breath, I trembled forward. Light was sparse, coming only from the doorway and jagged patterns through holes in the nailed up windows. It smelled musty, fitting for a place uninhabited for over half a century. I could barely distinguish various shapes of furniture and paintings shrouded by heavy blankets coated with a thick layer of dust. With tiny, shuffling steps, I carefully edged inside, my eyes wide and ears alert.
Creak.
Sucking in my breath I stood still as a statue. Why did I even agree to this?
I was cautiously mounting the rickety mouldering steps when the door crept shut. Startled, I let out a gasp. I could still see, barely, from the narrow rays of light slicing through walls and windows. With much determination, I finally made it to the second level. My eyes focused on what appeared to be the bathroom, the door fully open, and an old fashioned bathtub. Was that the faint sound of water dripping? I froze. Before I could take another step forward, I saw her.
Emerging from the tub was a young girl. Her body was cloaked in black and what little I could see of her skin was prune-like, wet and pale, almost translucent. Slowly, she tilted her head, her beady black eyes staring through a mess of stringy, tangled black hair. She reached forward with two fists, unveiling long, gruesome nails and bloody fingers.
Catching my breath, I stumbled backwards, bumping into the wall and sending something shattering. My eyes moved to the fallen painting. It featured an unusually gibbous man smiling wickedly. Meanwhile, shrill screeching brought me back to reality as the girl reached forward, her nails clawing at the walls as though they were chalkboards.
Glass crunched beneath my runners as I flew down the stairs. I sprinted to the door only to be caught by her ghastly fingers. Blinded by fear, I maniacally tossed and waved my hands trying to defend myself. I finally reached the door, gasping for breath.
In my panic, I yanked so fiercely that the door almost unhinged. I trampled down the porch steps and sprinted across wilted grass to the farm road. In my determined concentration, I was unaware that my friends were hiding behind a tree and, as they tackled me to the ground, I let out an ear-splitting scream. They laughed hysterically, delighted at their success.
I stole a glance back at the old Victorian home and spotted a figure peering through a wooden board in the front window. It was her, still hidden beneath a curtain of hair. “Come back,” she mouthed as her small lips curved upward.