• Kyle Owens

Fiction: Screams

Haunted House

Photo Source: PxFuel

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, I live at 3518 Lake Street and I just heard a scream come from the house across the street.”

“Did you say a scream?”


“Do you know who lives in the house?”

“It’s abandoned. No one lives there. No one has lived there for around ten years now.”

“Do you know the house number?”

“3517, it’s a large house with a tower.”

“3517 Lake Street?”


“I’ll send out a unit to do a check.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Base to all units, we have a report of a scream coming from an abandoned house on Lake Street. House number is 3517. Are any units in the area?”

“Unit 37 to base, I’m not far. I’ll check it out.”

“Roger that Unit 37.”

Officer Stoker drove the route to the Lake Street destination inside the darkness of a violent thunderstorm. Within minutes his patrol car pulled up in front of the long forgotten, sprawling Victorian mansion back dropped with slits of lightning.

Officer Stoker exited his police car and quickly made his way through the downpour of rain onto the covered front porch. He grabbed the edges of his opened coat, shook them to shed the rainwater from its cloth surface and then looked into a basement window.

“Hello? Is anyone in the house?”

After a blank response he made his way to the front door. “Hello?”

Officer Stoker knocked briskly against the door and on the fourth knock it opened slightly.

Stoker pushed the door forward which imitated the squeak of a coffin lid being lifted. A musty smell filled his nostrils. An uneasiness, an almost overwhelming fear of a presence sharped his senses.

His duty called him into the front room and immediately cobwebs crisscrossed against his face which caused an automatic reflex with his right hand to wipe them away.

“Hello? Police Officer! We got a call about a scream coming from in here!”

The bloated darkness stood silent.

“Is someone injured?”

Officer Stoker took his flashlight from his coat pocket and evaluated the room through its long beam.

Sheets draped furniture like a ghost. Spider webs blew lightly in an unseen draft. Spills of water overflowed the rim of a JFG metal coffee can on a window sill. The wind bellowed like an ancient beast perched on the sky cliffs from medieval lore. The lightning stripped the dark from night. Clashes of air thundered the ears.


Officer Stoker made his way into the kitchen. His flashlight illuminated the area, but nothing out of the ordinary was seen.

To the right was a door. He walked over to it and opened it. Inside was a flight of stairs that led down to the basement.

“Police Officer, is anyone down there?”

Solitude met a carnage of dark.

The officer then proceeded down the stairs, which creaked and popped with every step he took, until he stood at the base of the final rung.

His flashlight beam began to recon the basement. A hutch stood in the center. Some red plastic bowls lined its counter. To the left was a work bench. An opened black tool box sat on the bench top’s edge.

As he turned slowly to his right his light ran across the stain streaked concrete floor and candled against a large object wrapped in white. He tried to decipher what he saw, but his mind chased the invisible. No answer voiced his memory banks and he could only rely on his eyes to reason out a conclusion.

It was human shaped, covered in white thread, like an ancient mummy from Egypt’s past. It tried to move as it struggled inside the tight fabric to lift itself off the cold dank floor, but it couldn’t manage any consistency of momentum.

Suddenly a corner of shadow appeared to shift.

His light flooded onto the target of the perceived movement and spotlighted a specter that boiled his blood.

Pushed into the corner was a giant black spider of such a monstrous size that it had never nightmared a human mind inside the deepest horror torn dreams.

It was over ten feet in length. Its body was slightly curved as it tried to fit itself inside the tight space of the basement corner. Its back four legs ran up the corner walls and across several rafters of the basement ceiling. Its front legs were spread slightly along the floor to support its massive weight.

The officer’s eyes strangled on fear as a rush of emotions vomited inside his soul. He blindly hurried backwards and ran into the workbench, knocked the toolbox off which emptied its tools upon the floor filling the basement with the loud ringing sound of metal on concrete.

Opened roars of thunder chased the ebony tinged rain. Trembling flesh reached for blue steel. Throws of shadow shuffled quickly across the cold floor and-

“9-1-1 what is your emergency?”

“Yes, I called earlier about a scream coming from the house across the street at 3517 Lake Street.”


“I just heard another scream coming from the house. You all really need to see what’s going on over there.”

“There’s a unit over-” the operator’s words collapsed inside her mouth.

“Base to Unit 37, come in.”

“Base to Unit 37, come in.”

“Base to Unit 37, come in.”

“Base to Unit

Kyle Owens lives in the Appalachian Mountains and his stories have appeared in the Binge Watching Cure Horror Anthology, Eastern Iowa Review, Liguorian, among others. His novel, "A Mountain Christmas Wedding," was published by Books To Go Now. His cartoon collection, "The New Yorker Hates My Cartoons," was published by Clash Books.

If you are intersted in learning more about Kyle Owens, you can find his Amazon link here.