Games at the Edge of Nightmare Street
Flash fiction — anywhere but the end of that street
It was five o’clock — the evening shone earnestly, as if aware that hours later it would lose its glow. Pink and orange hues filled the cloudy sky; the silence in the air was suddenly cut by a sharp metal ping. The neighbourhood star-gazers saw a ball fly by, soaring towards the most unfortunate direction.
Kids swore at top volume, a few adults gasped. A sudden swarm of messages flooded the community group; everyone knew they would get an earful when they reached home. With what had just happened, profanity was not their primary concern.
The game they had thought of was simple: they had a steel pipe and three worn-out baseballs — someone pitches the ball, someone swings the steel pipe — whoever strikes the ball the farthest wins, whoever strikes has to retrieve the ball.
There was only one major rule:
Do not strike the ball towards the end of THAT street.
Nothing in the past twenty years had been spotted leaving the eerie cottage.
From afar, you would spot your dream house — a beautiful wooden log fence, a six-bedroom duplex with a spectacular balcony, an evergreen lawn and a private garden. The house had a rich shine that made it seem as though it was freshly painted. Up close, the cottage was anything but a dream.
Even for a neighbourhood that tried to encourage ingenuity, the road that led to the house could not be called anything but Nightmare Street.
Fog cloaked the house in an ominous mystery; dim yellow lights swayed rhythmically across each window. Some who claim to have gotten a few feet closer swear they heard repeated low thuds of an axe hitting flesh. None have dared to peek further behind the grey veil.
Many years ago, one of the wealthier families in the neighbourhood had planned to renovate their house. They also planned to “accidentally” demolish the cottage in the process. The construction company hired for the task vanished after entering the fogged up street.
A lanky kid wrapped his fingers around the cold steel pipe; his grip tightened as the ball struck the bat. Time slowed down, the sound of a sharp metal ping cut the air as the swing connected. His pale skin turned white; everyone held their breath as the ball took flight.
All eyes were on him as they heard the ball land with a vague and distant thud. There was no need to look; everyone knew where the ball landed. Not a word was spoken as he wobbled away in search of the ball. They should have stopped him.
An hour after their friend had gone out of sight, the swaying lights flickered. Teary eyes grew wide as they heard a blade swing and a thud echo. No one could see down the foggy road; none of the adults seemed to have heard anything.
With only a few minutes to sunset, shadows of the dark blue night slowly crept up. The group had huddled around a pine tree at the start of the street, their hope quickly fading with the setting sun.
No one else went near that house. No one returned from it either.
Written in response to Microcosm’s October weekly prompt by Zane Dickens and Lord of Halloween — Paul Mansfield.
