The door creaked. Its hinges rusted from age, and rain, and use. The door held many deep and marvelous stories. Stories ingrained by time, and patience. But something was wrong with the door at this moment. The way it creaked, told the owner of the house something was amiss. Something terrible. The door creaked to its full width, and in stepped a shadow, a mere figment of your mind, or so the thing seemed.
Haunting creaks came from all around, from the closet, from the basement. The cupboards slammed closed, with the the wind. Then he stepped through the door.
He had a look about him, that scared you to look at.
A look that this owner would never forget. Never.
He held a pistol at his side, a cigar in his mouth. The fain glow of the cigar gave, his face a creepy look. He raised the pistol towards the old man on the couch.
The man's eyes flashed open-
The pistol drew a bead on the man-
Then the pistol carrier spoke. A gravvely voice came thropugh the pounding wind.
" James Freeman, you will leave this here place. Now!"
The old man looked shocked. Who was this man to tell him what to do?
" No sir," ca,e the quavering reply, " I willl not leave my home."
" As you wish James."
The pistol let fly the lead it held in its iron stomach.
The man on the couch gasped-
A brief spurt of red-
And it was over.
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