Screaming is never a good thing to hear. Not when you're home, nor when you're taking a walk through the woods. Far be it from the truth to say you don't look forward to the guttural howl of a terrified final breath. Even less likely when you are alone. Haplessly secluded in your own room, when the sound of someone dying pierces your ears. Is it from the living room? The attic? Maybe even the basement? It hardly matters, nor would ever matter in the moment. You'd likely be worried about your family. And if you don't have any? That's far more... disconcerting don't cha think? The foolishly righteous would seek the screams to aid. The rightfully fearful wouldn't move a muscle. They'd just lie there and hope the terror soon passes. Who's right isn't for me to say. I'm simply a watcher, here to.. record life. Even to its final moments. Which is to say, all I've been recording as of late. Death has taken my fancy and it is why I am here now. Preparing to tell you a story. Ahh, but where are my manors? I've threatened a scare, but have yet to give so much as a setting.
This story takes place on a farm, just outside a small town called Potwin. Donald Mcgiffet lived alone on this farm as its sole overseer, with no wife or kids to call his own. He was likely to be the last to set foot in the walls of the shanty he called home. It was a simple, single-wide trailer with only a bedroom, a living room that acted as a kitchen, and a bathroom that hardly had enough room to sit comfortably in. He hadn't much to call his own save for a television set that caught me TV(the type of channel that plays only the oldies) and a rather nice bed. He'd spent a pretty penny on it, and took to sleeping(trying to at least) with gusto. But now it was only eleven thirty, not even close to bedtime and Donald was awake. Watching what can only be called reruns of Gilligan's isle. He rather enjoyed this show and was always happy to watch an episode or two before turning in. He'd stay up longer but he hated the show that always seemed to play like clockwork afterwards. That and for reasons he never dared to learn, what goes on after midnight. A beer or twelve and thirty minutes of television seem to pass by so quickly when you're caught in the loop called "the American dream". Sometimes you seem to forget how much time you have left before it all slips through your fingers. Donald didn't think this deep, and wouldn't when something made him stop what he was doing and spring into action. Somebody was outside again, and from the sounds of it. They were getting impaled by a tree stump. The scream emanating from something that wasn't more than one hundred feet from the window behind Donald's couch, Seemed all but human, or would sound human if they were choking on vomit and could somehow still scream. Donald always thought it sounded like somebody was howling through a small puddle, as if they were being drowned in less than an inch of water. Donald was up and moving before the scream ceased, it usually lasted a minute or two. He was running frantically from one side of the trailer checking that everything was locked tight. Ensuring that the padlocks He'd fixed to the windows and doors were locked as tight as can be. He started from his bedroom, and worked his way to the bathroom at the other end of the trailer. Of course, they all were locked. He never removed the padlocks, as he knew how forgetful he could be sometimes. Against his will he peered outside, and thought he could make out the faintest silhouette darting towards the window. He didn't stick around too long to look and left the bathroom, and closed the door. Not forgetting to shut off the lights as he went. "That's my cue," he said, reluctant to speak as he hurried to his bedroom. Where he would shut the lights off, draw the curtains and slip under the covers. Not being too ashamed to hide under them. He knew they'd do no good in protecting him. But whatever helps him sleep at night is fair game, hence why he had been downing beers like he was a professional alcoholic. Quiet... Is how one could describe the nights on Mcgiffit farm. Quiet and eerie, and save for the occasional howl that was better off ignored. All was quiet. Unless of course you're Donald in his trailer. Who was now just about to drift off to sleep when he heard a painfully familiar tap on his east wall(the wall at the head of his bed). As if something had pressed itself against the wall. The moon was out and had been for a while now and Donald braved a look out of his covers. He peered up at the window and nearly shit himself in response. He saw two hands, shadowing down from the glass of the window. Pressing firmly as if to open it. They sat there for a time, long enough to make Donald glad he'd locked everything. To him, in that brief moment from looking to hiding under the covers. He'd have swore left and right that those were not human hands, and that they did indeed bear clawed fingertips. Then, as if it could hear him. He heard a woman speak. "Let me in," it said. It's voice sounding sweet, young, and hurt. "I need help. Please let me in, i.I.. My leg hurts really bad, mister. I need help i.I.." it paused for a moment, its voice faltering for a moment before changing entirely. "I need you to let.. ME.. IN..." it went from sweet, to almost demonic in less than a second. Then just after it finished speaking. A howl, sounding much angrier and far less pained than the last, erupted from the window. As the creature outside felt the Sting of its failure. Or maybe it was trying to intimidate Donald? I wouldn't have gone outside to ask it. And neither would Donald, who jumped hard enough to shake his trailer a bit. "I know you're in there.." it said, backing away from the window. "Only a matter of time now.. I know of a way in now." It said slinking off into the darkness. Donald didn't move, in fact. He was akin to a statue, lying so motionless in bed that would think he was dead if it weren't for the occasional movement of the sheets. *"the door!!."* was the only thing Donald thought as he shot up in bed. He reached over to grab a flashlight and his double barreled shotgun(he'd always kept it by his bed). He'd forgotten to lock the door and it was the creature's taunts that made him remember. *"how fucking stupid. Fuck. Fuck... FUCK"* He thought in a frantic panic as he stood up, and snuck to the bedroom door. Then he stopped, listening so keenly. Waiting for the door to open. But it didn't. No sound, no creaking from the living room, no crashes or even the subtlest of scraped along the linoleum. His heart, that was about to fall out of his chest and onto the floor. Slowed down by about two hundred beats per minute as he pondered the idea of going back to sleep. So he turned and went as if to go back to bed. When the thing screamed, a howl was so deafening so.. hungry that any man would resign himself to death. A howl followed by a devilish laughter, and a long full handed scratch down his bedroom door. "I told you," it said through a whisper. "I found a way in." It backed away from the door. Donald rose up the courage to speak, and at the same time. Open the door. "Yeah. And I've got two excited sausages ready for your fuckin head." But to his dismay there wasn't anything there. At Least not directly in front of the door. But he could clearly tell from the moonlight pouring in from the right side of his trailer, that the door was open. So he steadied his light, and aimed his shotgun as he left the room. Shining the light from side to side, stopping just on the other side of the bedroom door. Where he could easily see the whole trailer, whilst being able to retreat if need be. Still though, he saw nothing. Peering out across the trailer, back and forth. There wasn't anything to see besides the open door... *" the door."* he thought again as he looked straight towards it. His heart... well it would have stopped had it been able to. He didn't even need the light to see what was going on. Cocked at an awkward angle, staring directly at him was a figure whose arm was hanging limp at his side. And from this angle, Donald could only see half of its face, and the long sharp claws that hung from its hands. He knew that it was staring at him, and decided not to give it any warning shots. He took aim and pulled both triggers. Loosing a total of 8 slugs through the wall, and into the creature. But to his dismay, he'd missed. Or maybe not, but either way. The creature lived, and was now creeping slowly across the trailer. *Click. Click.* If only he'd bought a semi auto. "You didn't grab more bullets.." the creature jested as it crossed the room. Donald, who was now starstruck shining the light into the beasts eyes, got a very good look at what was about to kill him. Freakishly long arms, and legs with thin wispy hair, sharp claws and teeth that pertuded from an elongated skull akin to a deer. And the smell of rot. The next scream? Well, it wasn't anything other than human.