© 2012 Nick B
“What was that?” Bob asked, looking about nervously.
“It was nothing alright, nothing.” Stan was already getting fed up and they’d only been in there for ten minutes.
“But I’m sure I heard something,” Bob whispered.
“You didn’t hear anything,” Stan groaned. “How many times have I got to tell you?”
Down the darkened hallway they went, Bob looking about, eyes searching out anything at all that could possibly create the slightest sound.
“Follow me,” Stan told him, heading for the stairs.
Half way down …
“There!” Bob hissed, his eyes wide as he grabbed Stan.
“Alright, that was a noise.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What we’re here to do. Check it out and then …”
“But what if it’s—”
“We don’t know what it is until we get there and anyway, it’s not going to be anything to worry about. God, why did I have to get teamed up with you?”
“It’s not my fault,” Bob replied, petulantly. “I get jumpy.”
“You don’t say.”
“Just follow me. The sound seemed to come from the kitchen area. It’s probably just mice.”
“Must be huge mice.”
“Ooh, Sor-ry! What flea’s got up your butt?”
“You, you stupid—”
They stopped as another sound, much louder than the first came from the direction they were heading in.
Bob grabbed Stan in a vice-like grip.
“Get off me!”
Bob let go, but stayed close – very close. “I saw a shadow. That was a shadow! It moved across the back wall there.”
“I know,” Stan agreed. “I saw it too. You don’t think it could be—?”
Stan’s sentence was cut short as two figures could be seen along the far wall, barely visible in the darkness, but their faces seemed to glow in a pulsating green light.
“What the—!” Bob exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
Bob mouthed ‘sorry’ and made a ‘zip’ motion across his mouth.
“Okay,” Stan whispered. “Let’s see if we can get closer.”
“Yes, you idiot, closer. How do we know for sure it’s not a trick of the light?”
“Sure. Trick of the light. Right,” Bob said, sarcastically. “Like that was a trick of the light. That was definitely two—”
“For heaven’s sake, shut up will you?”
Tip-toeing across the space between them and the glowing forms, Bob and Stan inched forward, trying not to alert the figures to their presence until …
“Ready?” Stan asked.
“Ready,” Bob agreed.
“Right Bob; heads off. Don’t forget, hold yours at about waist height and make the moans as desperate and chilling as possible …”
The last thing the two ghosts saw of Dave Tango and Steve Gonsalves was their backs as they sprinted out of the kitchen, down the hallway and out of the front door, screaming like little girls.