He couldn’t believe what he’d gotten himself into.
“A dilapidated bungalow that looks a century old? Damn, I shouldn’t have taken up that bet. But no turning back now. Stella would think I’m a sissy.”
Chris had heard dark rumors of a white ghost that claimed perennial residence in that murky bungalow. The place appeared to be devoid of life. More precisely, it was deprived of it. All of flora was defoliated, and there were no signs of fauna. A lone tree in the front yard, with its outstretched branches that looked like a witch’s fingers, bode an ominous welcome to whoever dared to walk in. Admittedly, dark clouds and a lightning strike right now, would’ve sent Chris sprinting for a change of pants.
Standing in the front yard, he could clearly see the hole in the top window that was in the shape of his cricket ball. And now he just had to get the ball.
Stella: “That’s it Chris, simple”
Chris: “Yeah!”. Translation –> “I Wish!”
There were only three things that scared Chris: Singing in public, ghosts and his mom, in that order. He once dreamt running to a ghost for refuge while being chased by his mom who was mad at him for not singing in public. His worst nightmare. Part of it would come true tonight. “But Still better than that dream”, he thought.
Wasting no more time, wanting to just get it done with, he inched closer towards the door. Twigs and leaves crunched under his feet. He bit his tongue and moved with caution, not to make a sound, like that would make him invisible. “Don’t wake the devil”, he told himself.
When he approached the door, he paused for a moment, half expecting the door to screech open by itself. When it didn’t, he turned the knob and it clicked open. With his reputation, whatever was left of it, on the line, he walked in. “Plain pathetic”, he thought. But there was no turning back now.