Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford Read Free Book Online

Steve’s not listening, distracted with something on his screen. They’re always watching, I think. My internal monologue mimics the voiceover of a horror movie trailer.
    Back upstairs, Steve helps himself to one of my orange sodas. Dad’s put a list on the fridge where I can add food requests. Below Oreos, Doritos, and Hot Pockets I add orange soda . “When’s she coming?” asks Steve, more anxious than intended.
    “Hold your jets,” I say, but honestly I always get butterflies before hanging out with Ally too. ( Jets? Better cut that shit before Ally gets here.) From somewhere in the house, Dad’s snoring gets caught in his throat. Ever since Mom left, he hasn’t gone to work—all he’s done is sleep. We quiet down. I pick up the camera, and let Steve fiddle around in the pantry. I open the LCD screen and hit play . The timecode starts from 00:20:28 and continues to turn the seconds over. The demonic footage is gone.
    There’s a knock on the door.
    “Finally,” Steve says.
    Ally and a friend whom she introduces as Megan stand at the door. Megan has bigger boobs than Ally, but her pants are too tight, which makes her waist stick out like a muffin top. Her face is cute even though she wears too much make-up. She smacks her gum and utters a “hey.” Steve’s mental boner is obvious as she struts over to where he’s standing.
    “I thought maybe we could use some extra help,” Ally says, shrugging and tucking her hair behind her ear.
    “Yeah, sure. It’s cool.” Whatever keeps Steve off Ally will give me a better chance.
    “So anyway!” Ally says as I offer her the rest of my orange soda, “I was watching this movie last night. So scary.” Her eyes widen. “I thought of you when I was watching it.”
    “Hmm?”
    “It was old. Have you seen The Haunting ? Black and white … .”
    Steve, from behind me says something about how black and white movies aren’t scary, and though I agree with him, I nod. “I’ve heard of it.”
    “I mean, it’s not like a slasher or anything. Just really like atmospheric. When you’re watching it late at night it puts you in this weird mood.” She looks around for any empathy, shrugs. “Ghost movies creep me out,”
    The word “ghost” stirs something in me. “How come?” I ask. I think my voice shows too much concern, so I add, “Like, compared to a monster movie.”
    “A couple years ago, before we moved to Silver Creek, someone broke into our house. My mom and dad were asleep, but I was having trouble sleeping. I have a lot of nightmares. I remember lying there and hearing footsteps around our house. I was so scared, but I didn’t want to scream. It was kind of like when you wake up from nightmare and there’s still some image left over and you’re not sure if it’s real or not. Have you ever had that?”
    Steve and Megan shake their heads.
    “Yes,” I say.
    “I was just sitting in my bed, not sure if the footsteps were real, or if I was just making it up in my mind. But then”—she takes a gulp of soda—“but then, the door to my room opened a crack.”
    I think of my closet door. My stomach lurches.
    “And I sat up in bed and gasped a little, you know, because I was so scared. I sat and stared at that small crack and whatever it was stared right back at me. It felt like a long time but then I heard the footsteps walk down my hall and leave out the front door.”
    “Whoa,” says Steve, in an unintentional Keanu impersonation.
    “Yeah but,” she continues, giving up the dramatic story-teller voice, “there was nothing missing the next day. I must’ve set the robber straight.”
    “Or,” Steve says, “maybe it really was a ghost.”
    “Doubt it. He left a bunch of muddy boot prints.”
    “Were they g-g-ghost boot prints?” Steve asks.
    “Ew,” says Megan, cocking her head back. “I hate ghost movies.”
    “Wait,” I say. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”
    “No, not really. Do you?”
    I most certainly do, but this isn’t