Alan positioned the flashlight directly in front of his mouth and made eerie ghost sounds. The light, tainted red from shining through his flesh, made disconcerting shadows on the sides of the tent.
“Bre-e-e-tt, are you afraid of the da-a-a-a-rk?” Alan asked in the same ghost-mimicking voice.
“No, of course not,” Brett replied, all the while thinking Yes, yes, oh dear God, yes I’m afraid of the dark. But they were safe in the tent they had pitched in Alan’s backyard, Brett chided himself.
“We should tell ghost stories.”
Even in the dim light, Brett could see the wicked gleam in his friend’s eye.
“I don’t know any,” Brett muttered.
“Have you ever heard about the house on the hill?”
Brett shook his head.
“They call it the Fool on the Hill, like that Beatles song.”
“What’s so scary about a fool on some hill?” Brett asked skeptically, and then wished he hadn’t asked because he knew that now Alan was going to tell the story whether he wanted him to or not.
“Some crazy guy used to live there. Just a regular dude, worked at the factory, and then one day he just snapped and killed his wife and kids and boarded himself up inside of his house up there. Nobody has seen him since, and now it’s haunted by his restless spirit.”
The flashlight was back to illuminating Alan’s mouth, and Brett watched, mesmerized.
(more…)