This is the seventh installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
He walked into the basement with the horror movie from the night before playing in his head.
There was silence now. Leo gripped the hand railing and tried to reassure himself. Mother had always said he had an overactive imagination; of course he hadn’t actually heard crying.
He fumbled with the light switch, and the light flickered before turning off completely. He should’ve listened to Mother and changed the bulb last week. His phone flashlight would have to be good enough. In the striking white light, the basement looked like one of those games Mother wouldn’t buy for him—but he’d watched enough playthroughs on YouTube to get the sense that this wouldn’t be good.
The crying started again, and Leo jumped so much that he nearly slid down the last three steps. He recovered, though, and he crept toward the source of the sound: the water heater.
The baby doll wore the same yellow dress as it had in the movie, and its recorded crying repeated on a loop even though nothing pulled the string on its back. The sleek finish on its cheeks gave it the appearance of a tear-streaked face, and Leo didn’t want to stick around for when it’d open its eyes.
He scrambled back toward the stairs, and he made it to the top as the light turned on. He found the door locked—as he expected. The breathing behind him sounded just like the movie, and he didn’t want to turn to see what would come next.
Hands seized his arms, and he whirled around, striking wildly. His fists connected with wool and flesh. Mother laughed so hard that she had to cling to the railing to keep from tumbling down the stairs.
“What did I tell you about watching those movies?”
Miles Away 