The Guest House Hauntings Boxset Hazel Holmes (easy novels to read TXT) 📖

junk like a desert wanderer stumbling upon an oasis. She ripped open the top of the first box she came across, thrusting her hands inside and finding nothing but old rags. She dumped them out onto the floor and moved onto the next box.

Rusted silverware and a few old pots rattled inside. Sarah set aside one of the rusted forks, thinking it could come in handy. She considered trying to smash the doorknob with one of the pots, but she knew that breaking it would just keep her locked inside, though it’d make it harder for Dennis to get back in.

Every box that she came across was an opportunity for escape, but as she neared the end of her search, that hope again started to dwindle. But as she searched her last box, she heard the heavy clank of metal inside. And when she opened the top, her heart beat faster.

Sarah grabbed the rusted handle of the toolbox inside and flipped the latch, the hinges squeaking as she opened the top. A hammer, nails, wrench, and screwdriver rested inside. The tools were old, and when Sarah picked up the screwdriver, she found the handle to be smooth old wood. She gently ran her fingers over the sharp tip and then looked to the exit.

The door was built to swing inward, the hinges on her side of the room. Sarah hurried to the door and jammed the rusted screwdriver into the bottom of the bolt in the hinges, trying to work them out.

Like the movement in her chair, the progress was slow, and it was noisier. Every whack of the rusted metal spear sparked a thud that ran through the room and most likely out into whatever hall or part of the house she was trapped inside.

But when no one came down the hallway and burst down the door, she kept going, slowly working the brass pegs from their holes to create a crack big enough for her to squeeze through. It wouldn’t need to be big. She was small. And as that plug worked its way through the halfway mark, Sarah forwent the screw driver and pulled on the rusted brass.

The pegs were stubborn, and Sarah picked and prodded until her fingers bled, the red streaks crawling down her forearm as she finally removed the first hinge from its holder.

Hands shaking, she dropped it to the floor and then moved to the next. She fell into a rhythm, ignoring the pain and focusing on the task.

Sarah pried the middle peg from its hinge and then tried to wedge the door open. The crack to her freedom had widened another two inches, but it still wasn’t wide enough to squeeze through. She pulled back, getting scratches along her stomach, back, and shoulder as her shirt ripped.

She reached for the screwdriver, jamming it up at the highest hinge. Even with her arm all the way extended, she couldn’t reach. She quickly brought the chair over, using it to reach all the way to the top hinge.

Exhaustion skewed her aim, and Sarah only hit the bottom of the hinge every third try. The blood from her fingers crawled down her forearm in veiny lines. The pain in her body was screaming for her to stop, but the urge to survive, the spark of finding freedom, pushed her past the pain.

Sarah repeatedly smacked the end of the screwdriver with her palm, the cold accentuating the pain with every hit.

She hammered out the last few inches of the brass peg. Finally, it sprang from the hinge, and Sarah had her hands in the crack of open space before the brass peg even hit the floor.

Sarah pushed the door open as far as it would go, then thrust her head through the tight space.

Sarah harnessed her remaining strength and jumped, her legs smacking against the door and the frame as she landed hard on the hallway floor.

“You have to hurry.” Maggie stood over her in the hallway, pointing toward a door that Sarah prayed was to freedom. “He’ll be back soon.”

Sarah pushed herself to her feet and was consumed by the thought of freedom, but as she stared down at her nearly naked body, she thought of her backpack, and her clothes, and then she remembered her photograph.

Sarah spun around, staring at the mangled woman in the hall. “My bag. Where is my bag?”

Maggie pointed up. “The fifth floor in the room I showed you.”

“Shit.” Sarah wiped the snot dripping from her nose, smearing some blood from her hand and onto her upper lip. She couldn’t stop shaking. She saw the screwdriver that she’d dropped to the floor. She picked it up then headed for the door at the end of the hall.

With the mixture of cold and adrenaline, Sarah wasn’t sure how much noise she was making on her ascent, but she made it to the fifth floor without incident.

She burst through the door, running toward the room at the end of the hall, the door open like it had been before, and then found her backpack on the bed. Still gripping the screwdriver, Sarah slung the pack over her shoulders, and then pivoted toward the exit.

The door slammed shut, and Sarah flung her body against it, tugging at the doorknob that refused to open.

And then the room darkened, as if all light had been sucked from inside. The temperature plummeted, and her entire body broke out in gooseflesh from the frigid, painful cold. Her bones ached, and her muscles seized up.

“Sarah.”

Slowly, she turned toward the voice, which spoke her name in a throaty hiss, that originated from the darkest corner on the opposite side of the room.

The figure had no shape, no physical form, but Sarah knew it was there. She thought of the spirit that Maggie had spoken of, and how it was hungry.

The darkness spread across the room, the voice reaching deep into her thoughts. She examined the screwdriver in her hand, and she suddenly remembered all of the pain from her