The Milkman By Kirsty R-D

The Milkman

Catherine had always know ghosts existed. There was no false pretence in her mind that the man who left non-existent bottles of milk outside their door every morning was not just an echo of life left over from half a century ago, or that the elderly woman who came in her room to say goodnight had not long since shuffled off this mortal coil.

But ghost stories were never scary for Catherine. How could they be? The ghosts she knew were kind and friendly - like the little girl who always wanted to play pat-a-cake or the kind man who never failed to look up from his typewriter to smile at Catherine and run his hand through his afro before returning to his never ending stream of words.

The only ghost that Catherine didn’t like was the dog. Each year, on the 16th May, at roughly 10pm the dog began to bark. And when the dog began to bark, everything changed.

 

Ruff! Ruff! It was that time of the year again, the night Catherine had come to dread. Ruff! Ruff! The barking was louder this time, more urgent and threatening. Ruff! Another bark, followed by the creak of a door being opened.

The worst night of the year had officially begun.

The barking became furious, hostile, dotted with growls. But all it took was a small bang - not even enough to wake someone from their sleep and the barking stopped, a high-pitched whimper sailed through the night. The house was silent once more.

Catherine waited in her bed, the sheets pulled tight around her body, waiting for the thuds. And then they came. Quiet and soft but deafening in what they meant. The sound of boots creeping up the stairs, slowly so as not to arouse the occupants of the house, echoed in Catherine’s ears for she knew they weight they carried.

The intruder was upstairs now, making his way along the corridor. Catherine swallowed as his transparent figure glided through her bedroom door. The white outfit he normally adorned was gone and instead of bottles of milk, the man held a silver knife, smeared with blood. On his trousers were dark streaks of the same blood as though he’d tried to clean his dirty deed off of his knife.

A red patch on his arm, showed through the night, cradling the white circle and strange black symbol in the centre, resembling a turning cross. Catherine didn’t know the symbol, but she had grown to hate it.

He peered around the room and his eyes settled on a bed, one that only showed up at certain times. In it was a little, dark-skinned girl, innocent in all respects. The milkman’s gaze lingered on the girl then he slowly crept out of the room backwards.

Catherine heard his feet shuffle as he decided which room to enter next. He went to the one farthest down the corridor. Catherine could hear deep snores coming from the room, snores that didn’t belong to her younger brother Caleb. These were the snores of the kind man who always wrote. But soon his snoring stopped and a shout escaped his mouth before a squelching sound and a final grunt.

Next, Catherine heard hurried footsteps of bare feet against carpet. The elderly woman had been woken. But as soon as Catherine heard the door of the room next to hers open, a scream rang through the night, followed by an unholy bang and a gasp of horror.

By the time the woman was dead, the little girl in Catherine’s room was already on her feet, and she was no longer asking to play pat-a-cake. She mimed opening a door and ran from the room.

Catherine could hear her crying, running to the stairs. The milkman got there just after her and next thing Catherine knew several thuds sounded in quick succession before the girl hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

All that was left to disturb the night was a final bang, a small yelp, and the closing of the house’s front door.

Tomorrow, Catherine would see no ghosts, but by the 18th, they would be back like normal and return to the replaying of their everyday lives until next May 16th.

 

Ghost stories were never scary for Catherine because she knew that people were much more terrifying when they were alive.