Night Terrors Vol. 11: Short Horror Stories Anthology

7 hours and 19 minutes

215 pages

The Playhouse
by Georgia Cook

It was nearly nighttime, turning the garden into a thing of shadows and jagged shapes. The bushes surrounding The Playhouse rustled as we made our way through them, already thick with the first autumn berries.

The Playhouse stood before us, silent in the dark. The setting sun cast great webs of gold across the shingles. My grandparents had made tiny additions over the last few days—lace curtains in the windows and a proper welcome mat by the door. My grandfather had even found an old weathervane for the chimney, and it spun gently round and round in the breeze. Casey glared at it then at me as if I’d been the one telling stories about Mr. Bridges. Then she marched to the door, shoved it open, and stepped inside.

It was dark in The Playhouse. My grandparents hadn’t installed lights yet, and the few mornings I’d spent playing here had been bright and frosty. Shadows pooled in the corners, arching up toward the ceiling, making the room feel much larger than it really was. My grandmother’s table and chairs stood in the middle, looking rather sad in the gloom. Casey stood next to them, her arms crossed as she stared at the plain white walls and wooden floorboards. She sniffed as if she’d expected better but wasn’t surprised. Her cheeks, I noticed, were flushed pink.

Her gaze flickered to the door as it creaked shut. For a moment, I thought she was going to snatch it open. I didn’t enjoy the darkness either as it turned The Playhouse into something I didn’t recognize, something I was sure my grandfather hadn’t built. The walls were too close, the corners were too deep, and the windows—covered in their thin lace curtains—obscured the view.

A sound came from outside.

We froze.

Someone was walking down the path toward The Playhouse with long, even strides. At first, I thought it was my grandfather, but the steps were too heavy and too solid. The footfalls grew louder as they entered the grove, crunching the fallen leaves with every step. They halted by the door. Then the knocking began.

I stared at Casey. Her eyes were wide in the darkness. Someone was knocking on the door of The Playhouse with the same steady pace as the night before.

“Granddad?” I called and instantly regretted it as the knocking stopped abruptly.

We stood in a new terrible silence, too frightened to move.

There was something standing behind the door, and I didn’t need to see whoever it was to know it wasn’t my grandfather. I could feel its presence in the same way I felt the night pressing in against the windows or my grandmother crossing the kitchen in the morning.

It was tall and thin and very, very still.

With a bang, the knocking began again, faster this time. It knew we were in here now. It knew where we were.

I stumbled back as the door trembled under a barrage of blows. Dust floated down from the ceiling. The curtains fluttered.

“It’s Mr. Bridges!” Casey whispered, backing up against the wall. “It’s Mr. Bridges come back for his door! I told you! I told you!”

I’d never seen her look so terrified. I’d never seen anyone look so terrified. All suspicions of this being a cruel prank vanished—Casey was just as scared as me.

I ran to the door, my heart pounding.

But I’d said I was sorry! I’d thanked him! This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right.

“Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

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