My School Stories~ 11 Forest Ebott Murder's~

My sluggish eyes squish against my cheek as I hold my head up with my hand. I jolt up from my chair in my dark and practically empty room. My gaze meets the ad on my computer on Facebook with a ghost on it. Surprised that my ad-blocker didn't remove the ad, I click it. It brings up a phone number with no area code. Being the idiot I am, I called the number. There was no automated voice call, it was a real person. They asked me what I needed, and gave them my information. "You're hired," The person shouted from the other side of the phone. My ear rang. I sucked in the air between my teeth and hissed in pain. "Sorry, you'll be needed tomorrow morning. Six in the morning." I nod and hang up the phone. I go to sleep early so I know I'm wide awake for whatever tomorrow holds for me. I grab my pillow and cuddle into my fuzzy gray blanket and doze off slowly.

My first day on the job, I'm called in for the haunting of the Funtime Gas-Station Murders. This problem has been a big deal since 1948. People would be found missing for a period of time and there would be no traces of them what so ever. The only thing at the crime scene would be a polaroid picture of the person's face with no fingerprints and a note formed with cut-out letters from a magazine. n.o.body knows who or what it is. To start, I go to Forest Ebott. As rumored, anybody that ever goes there never comes out. It's said to be a suicide forest. Furthermore, I venture into the forest and find a great big house. It's covered in cobwebs, vines, and looks like its been up for ages. My footsteps creak as I enter the unlocked door in mid-day. The door squeaks and swivels between the grab and swing of my hand. The place is covered in rotten trash and about anything you would find in a scary movie house. I let out a quiet giggle. I go to take a step but hear another creak from behind me. My eyes get foggy as I hit the hard ground. A plank of wood comes up and hits me in the face, leaving me in a pool of my own blood that surrounds my body. I wake up covered in my dried blood, black bruises, and tattered clothing. I'm in a barbwire cage that's easy to get through. A small 90's TV blares and skips through the two channels it has uncontrollably. The TV glares my eyes against the dark shadows of the room. I begin to pick at the corner of the barbwire and let it come off loose enough for me to tear it open. I make my way out as quiet as I can and pull out my wick lighter so I can see about a few feet in front of me. It's around twilight now as I make my way through locked rooms, old and dusty wooden beds, hallways, and the ventilation system. I finally stop dead in my tracks as I get to the bas.e.m.e.nt. The room is full of hundreds of propane tanks and one small trap door that goes underground. Being the nosey person I am, I go down the trap door and find the figure of a man smashing the insides of something red. I freeze in my tracks as he stops. His heavy breathing brushes against the burlap sack on his head and airs out from under is rusted red flannel. Without expression, his arm swings and smashing my head into the side of the wall with a heavy sledgehammer. I feel my eyes roll to the back of my head in silence. "I'm not a myth, or a ghost," the low and scratchy voice whispers. "...I'm a legend. The myth is what lays behind your imagination."