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Art by Lori Michelle Adams

Bring the Rain   by Madmystyk

In the fall of 1992, a boy was born. His name was Peter Woods. He had wealthy loving parents who cared for him so. Everything was perfect; he had a big house, all his needs, all his wants, etc. He loved it. Even though he was an only child and he was too young to judge things in his life, he always felt happy. Not one thing could ever take that feeling away.

But that wasnít true.

In 1998, when he was six, his parents let him stay home for the first time. They made sure he would never open the doors or answer the phone to anyone. Of course, Peter agreed, since he was a kind-hearted boy.

When his parents left, he ran to the couch in the living room and switched on the television, and found that the channel four news was on. He didnít like watching the news, because he thought of it as just a bunch of bad happenings that are currently going on, but this time, something caught his attention.

On the screen, it showed a live view from a helicopter. ďThis is live, now in downtown, where an escapee escaped from prison, robbed a bank and is now on the streets. Police are currently looking for this deranged serial killer this hour. Here is a mug shot. Heís 300 pounds, about six feet tall and is named Bill Winfred. If you are watching this now, please stay inside, and if you are not in this area now, please do not plan to come in. This man is armed, and dangerous.Ē

Peter couldnít believe his eyes, for that area was where he was in. He immediately looked outside the window into the streets, but nothing was there. Peter kept staring out he window.

Time passed.

Peter still looked out the window, not bothering about the time. His parents were going to be home in about half an hour. For the first time in awhile, he felt fear. That inner demon he hid from the world was now physically expressing itself, through fear.

He saw something at the corner of his eye. A man was walking, jogging perhaps, up the street. He was a tall man. He wore a gray New York zip-up sweater and baggy jeans. He had no hair, but a thin mustache connected to a thin beard that lined against his chin. Peter felt fear in his veins, but that soon turned to terror, when the man turned and headed for his house.

As if he didnít now any better, he immediately ran up the stairs into his room and went under the covers. He silenced his breathing, for he feared the man would hear him. "Will the man find me here?" He wondered. "If he does, what will happen to me? Will I be able to escape? Will I live?" His skin felt clammy, his heart was chilled with coldness and his hands were shaking.

He heard a slam on the door.

Peter froze with heart-stopping fear. His heart felt as if stabbed with a thousand burning needles.

Another slam.

Peter jumped again in shock, then started silently weeping. What will become of him? If that man breaks into the house, Peterís future will be at stake.

Another slam and this time he heard the door swing open and hit the wall. PeterĎs eyes started to water as he heard those heavy footsteps running down the hall into the kitchen, then to the dining room and into the living room. This was going too quick, thought Peter.

There was a pause for a brief moment. He soon heard the sirens of the police far outside the window. The TV was still on and the live news report was still on. The man was in the living room where Peter saw the news report. Somehow, Peter knew he was watching.

A sudden shock filled Peterís veins as he heard the big screen TV tip over and slam against the marble, creating a loud sound of breaking glass. He was about to scream, but his throat was closed. This caused him to have a series of loud coughs that the man heard from downstairs.

Peter immediately covered his mouth and listened. Silence at first, but then he heard a giggle, that turned into a laugh. It was a horrible laugh. The type of laugh that disturbs you. The type of laugh that sticks with you, almost forever. The type of laugh that chills your bones.

The sound of evil.

Peterís throat throbbed with sadness and fear and his stomach churned with pain. He thought he would never make it out alive. He knew the man was hiding here and he knew the man heard him.

And he knew the man was stalking him.

Footsteps slowly creaked up the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps. There were twenty-one steps total. Each one filled Peterís bones with coldness.

Four, five, six, seven. They continued as if they would never stop. No stopping it now. No stopping it later. They continued and each step was even closer.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Finally, they reached up, all the way to twenty-one.

Silence invaded Peterís ears. Yet again, he heard footsteps slowly going down the hall and heading towards his room. The man burst one door open, then another, then the next and so on, until he reached Peterís room.

Peter heard his door open and slam against his bedroom wall, knocking a picture off the wall with harsh impact. He held his breath, for he feared that if he made one single sound or movement, the deranged man would hear. This six year old was smarter than most at that age.

The man walked inside, ever so slowly, and looked around the room. He quietly walked toward the bed and gripped the covers. In a split second, he removed the cover and looked under the bed only, not bothering to look on top where Peterís feet showed.

The man looked under the covers for a moment. He threw the covers back covering Peterís feet. The man walked back out.

Peter let his breath out quietly as the pain and fear left his body. It was such a great feeling to him; he could feel warmth in his heart. This made him smile and made him want to laugh.

But he couldnít, for the man was still there.

But not for long.

There were sounds of sirens outside the house on the driveway, then a voice of a police officer on a loudspeaker ordered the man to get out of the house.

The man ran downstairs, as Peter jumped out of the bed and peeked out of the room to witness the cops burst in, tackle and arrest the man.

How do I know all this? Because I was the six year old boy. I wrote all I could remember. As for the thing I remember the most - that horrible laugh.

The End

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About the Author: Alexi

Alexi is a talented young 12-year-old author from California. He spends his free time writing, reading, and developing websites. Much of his writing is inspired by his drive to eventually become a film director.


About the Artist: Lori Michelle Adams

Lori Was born in Mansfield, Ohio in 1975. From very young she demonstrated an intense desire to create works of art. Lori has worked in various types of art such as Painting, Drawing, Sculpture, Writing and Photography. Her passion lies in painting and it is here where she continues to develope her own experimental intuitive styles. Lori's love of color and nature, as well as her deep love for Magick and Faith in God are ever present in her dreamlike images. Her work has been collected in the United States, Canada and Australia. You can see more of her art at madmystyk.deviantart.com

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