Screamscapes: Tales of Terror Read Online Free Page B

had been in this house almost a year and had yet to see a single neighbor set foot on his property, but he supposed it was possible.
    “Hey!” Tom yelled. “Anybody there?”
    He waited. Silence.
    “Hello?” he called again, more urgent this time, louder. “There’s someone working under the house. Please open the door!”
    Again he listened, half expecting to hear snickers of laughter; maybe teenage boys had cut through the yard, seen the door open with his materials beside it and thought this would be one hell of a prank.
    He held his breath and listened for any sound from the world on the other side of the door.
    Nothing.
    “Fuck this,” he said and twisted himself around, ignoring the plastic sheeting he had so carefully spread on the ground beneath him. It wound around his knees as he turned, rolling onto his back. He stuck his knee into a sludgy puddle; cold water seeped into his jeans and up his bare back chilling him to the bone. He placed the soles of his boots solidly against the steel door; the heavy rubber tread gripped the rusty surface nicely.
    He took a deep breath and kicked with all his might. The shock of the impact traveled like electricity up his legs and into the base of his spine, but the door didn’t budge in the slightest.
    “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Tom screamed, grasping at his legs but unable to bend his body enough to reach them.
    “God damn it, open the motherfucking door!” He screamed so hard it felt as though his throat was turning inside out.
    “Open the door! Open the door! Open the motherfucking door!” his voice started out strong and demanding, but the sound of desperation in his voice was growing more prominent.
    He planted his feet against the door and kicked two, three, four times more, with the strength of his entire being, but to no effect.
    He lay still, panting. His backside was soaked, his jacket slathered in mud, the freezing cold held at bay only slightly by the heat of his exertion.
    After a few moments, Tom worked his way around to face the door again, and cupped a single naked ear against the door’s frozen metal, listening intently.
    The silence beyond the door was complete. In a hoarse whisper, he began to plead earnestly to anyone who might be within earshot on the other side of the door.
    “Look, this isn’t funny anymore.” His voice was barely more than a whimper. “Please open the door. I promise I won’t be mad. I promise there won’t be any trouble.”
    He grew still and listened again.
    No reply. Not a sound.
    He glanced up at the floor of the house above. It felt as though the weight of the entire structure was pressing down on him, crushing him into the mud. He had to summon every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from descending into a full-blown freak-out.
    He listened for sounds coming from above – hoping to hear someone walking around inside. He listened for thirty seconds, perhaps forty, but his ears detected no movement, nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing, his adrenalized heart pulsing in his chest. He realized then that there would be no muffled footfalls from above unless the person who had trapped him here had broken into the house and was robbing him blind. If that were the case, he doubted they would be keen on letting him out when they were finished.
    It would be at least a week before his wife would return; what if he really were trapped under here? Would he still be alive by then?
    Would she even bother to call to check on him while she was gone, he wondered. It was unlikely. And if she did, would she be concerned if he didn’t answer the phone? He guessed not. If anything, she would probably think he was back to moping in bed and wouldn’t bother trying to call again.
    Thinking about his wife calling to check on him reminded him of his own cell phone – it was in his pocket right now. Getting reception at the farmhouse was a fifty-fifty chance at best, and that was being charitable; but trying to